The Weight of My World

The Weight of My World


They say at the moment of death, 21 grams of our weight is inexplicably lost.
Inexplicably.
But the old adage says that curiosity is the murderess in the first place
So I deem it worth further investigation.
Because no concept stretches too vastly across the landscape of my mind
For me
To explore
For you.

There's a theory, and you've met the type that holds it.
The romantic type, you know, what you liked to believe I could be
On that day we were wearing glasses with rosed-color lenses.
If it's true that in death, all life's questions are answered,
Then you must have been pretty embarrassed upon finding out
Just how devastatingly wrong you were.

For they believe that this sudden weight loss
Occurs when the spirit
Detaches
From the body.
I've surveyed every mountain and valley of my brain
Just like I promised
And I still can't identify substantial evidence to support this claim.
If I could, though, I have a feeling that it would become obvious
That these romantics need to invest in a few new scales
Because your soul would weigh much more than 21 grams.
YOUR soul would.
But I'm not a romantic, and I don't want to prove you wrong.
Because it's impolite to speak ill of the dead. So I'll stop.
Here.

There are the realists,
To which you reluctantly told me I belonged
With a hint of discouragement in your delivery
On that day we were watching a scene played out
And I told you that lines would never mesh with circles.
And action was more important than thought
And that it is darkness that destroys light.
You admitted that you had to believe it worked the other way around.
That light was the cancer to darkness
On a later day.
And I became inclined to agree
On an even later day.
Because I never destroyed you.
Except for maybe just that one LITTLE glimmer
On a previous day.

Realists will tell you, with every ounce of confidence they have
Better yet, every gram
21, to be exact,
That the loss of this weight can be attributed to sudden defecation
At the onset of death.
Your muscles relax to the point of atrophy,
And you release your spirit.
I mean, you release your waste.
Maybe there's a synonym prowling in the paths of the previous two lines,
But I'm too scared to walk back and check,
I have a growing awareness that the paths may intersect at a point of confusion and despair.
So I'll stop
But not until I tell you that it breaks my heart
And fractures my hope
When I think of that being your legacy.
Your final act on earth.
What you amount to in the end.
Those final 21 grams.
Through my vision,
You held more weight than a killer whale.
But you never
Sunk.
Except for maybe that one little glimmer.

I won't feel pity when I hear no mention of your name
In the text books of future generations.
Or the songs that they will dance so delicately to.
Or perhaps not so delicately
If the music contains no reference to you.
I will feel at ease,
Because I could not conjure up
One damn fact about Christopher Columbus
Except that upon further analysis
And studies digging into his pilgrimage
He turned out to be an incredibly unimpressive man.
You'll live on, wrapped safely in my memory
Where the opinions and speculations of others
Could not catch your scent with an army of blood hounds behind them
I will make sure of this. I will make positive.
For if they did ....
I can't think of it.
You have to remain
You
To
Me.
For if you didn't....
I can't think of it.
I have to stop.
Here.