Til Death Do Us Part

I care enough to call,
every night. Without fail. Life or death.

Nearly gone, on the sidewalk, blood making
a beautiful puddle at my elbow,
And still dialing, to hear your voice one last time.

Life or death.

And in those last seconds, right before eternity takes me over,
Will you even be available?
"We're sorry, ____ is not available."

Your voicemail, checked hours later:
"Hey babe. I'm pretty sure I'm dying, but I'm not dead yet, and only then don't I call. I guess you're sleeping, again. It's okay. I understand. Things are busy. But I still love you. Save this voicemail, though. You may never hear from me again. Hope you sleep well."

Push the END button, worn off now from constant use.
It's only been a year, but most of the buttons on that cell phone are rubbed off- from texting you.
There is blood on my fingers, smearing over the END button that was once red, turning it that color again.
See? Everything is falling back into place, fixing itself.
I didn't have to do anything but die.

Wake up. Your phone is new, not even a month old. It holds your favorite songs on a memory card that you had to pay extra for.
"Hey babe..."
Listen closely. You hear nothing in the background, only silence, and my voice. It sounds no different. It doesn't sound like I'm dying, but I never lie to you. You finish listening, and look at your phone.

The screen is covered in blood. It wasn't there a minute ago.
It wasn't there before you listened to my message.
Touch your ear. There, too?
Of course.

Go to the bathroom. What is wrong with your ear?
Nothing. It's not coming from your ear.
It came from my voice.
So close to death, but not close enough to consider not calling you before I go to sleep.
Just like every other night.
Except not, because I won't wake up at four in the morning to a random text of why you can't keep your eyes closed, telling me you're substituting pillows for my body.

You clean your ear, look closely. Nothing.
The message replays again and again in your head.
You take out your phone and listen, just to hear my voice.

You never know where the blood came from, now forever sunk into the cracks and microphones of your cell phone.

You will keep that phone until the day you die.
You will never erase that voicemail.
You will never understand.
But right before you die, you will call.
"Hey, this is ____'s voicemail. Sorry I can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message and I'll call you back, thanks!"


And what do you say?

"Life or death. Call you when I get there."

Afterwards:

I saw you in Hell,
Or was it Heaven?
With you there, I couldn't tell the difference.

Maybe it was Limbo.

I saw you- that red shirt
(the one you always wear),
your favorite jeans, with holes.

"You know you have to pray before you eat here."
(I still don't know if it was Heaven or Hell)
"You know I'd sooner walk out," you say.
Smile, laugh, that red shirt.
Yes, I know.

You waited. For years and years and years.
You were supposed to be old.
I've been here for ever.
But you were young, just like that day.
Red shirt, jeans with holes.

"I'm here prematurely.
Told you I would be."

But I've been here for ever.

"Not too long, just a few years.
I still have the voicemail. Want to listen?"

I do not.
I know every word in it, every tone infliction,
Every emotion that had coursed through me.

Oh my God, is this Heaven or Hell?

You won't walk closer.
I can still feel you.
The room is dark, our hands meet.

Did you wait?
"I did."

Did you love?
"Only you."

Did you die?
"If I didn't, I'm not going back."