The Final Crumb

The days spread before us
like butter on toast. The yellow
drips down my chin
and I can see the final crumb rising to my lips.
Why must it be the last? Why must my tongue
consume the oily syrup that soaks
my mouth in bliss? Can it not continue on? Can it last
until my last breath?

Day turns to night and night
back to day, but I refuse to let today end.
I treasure every bite of raindrops,
bask my bread in the heat from sun rays. Night wipes
away the final crumb; cleans the plate anew.
But take me back to yesterday. I want to savor
my brown crusted bread. Pucker my lips
around its melted butter before it fades
to black again.

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