my eggs are dying.

I’ve got about one good year left

to freeze my eggs.

Before they get crunchy

like my shoulders.

The melody of tissue pops like bubble wrap

Unpacking a fragile condition

that may cause me to date

solely based on the size and strength

of a man’s hands to unwrap me.

For now, I lie face down

and pay for a stranger’s elbow

to excavate trapped energy.

Scrolling through obit headlines

not knowing what mine will read

Blank slate.

Final wish used to be

my dust made into a bench in Central Park

so strangers could sit on my face

for eternity.

A resting place for meet cutes and the weary

Now I’m unsure.

Maybe I wish to be spread across the world

Throwing caution to the wind

much like I want my life to be.

Hopes as high as skyscrapers.