day 10

First, you write a list. But not any list.
A list of things you'd do only
if it was your last sun. Because,
it might be. And wouldn't
that be a terrible gift?

Then, you fold the list in half,
and half again, stuff it deep
in your pants pocket or bra,
tell no-one where it is. But then,
tell everyone. Because we want
everyone to miss us. To know
if they would have talked to you
half a second longer, or
something else, just slightly.
To be the center just once more,

the sun. After that, don't do
anything on the list. Not because
you don't have the time or the money--
you do, if you want to--
but because not finishing allows
another to do it in your name.
You're one for the people, after all. 

Finally, you don't die.
Not in a fiery crash that leaves
everyone gaping at the news,
shocked and tearless that you
could go so tragically.
Not by cancer, so slow--or quick--
that you suffer daily or never
have a chance to say goodbye.

No, you're not on anyone's list.
Instead, you write your name
at the top of the one in your bra
or pocket next to the word, lives.
Because isn't that
what we all don't want to do?