There's something tender about planning your death with someone else. About the tiny honest giggles The shared camaraderies. That even as your eyes lose their spark Your minds keep each other just a little warm You sit together, noose in both hands as you talk about what it means to live, to live long enough to die, to live enough to die. A short life is still a life. We joke about finally getting to meet Sylvia Plath. There's no heaven Or hell Just a coffee shop With a cute round table And 2 black men And a woman who might be just a little bit shocked To see us there. Now wouldn't that be lovely?