I want my last meal in this life to be a meeting.
Everyone I've ever hurt would come.
They'd flood the room
Then, one-by-one, they'd touch their hands
to my hair, my cheeks, my bones of knees
till all I could see was skin all around me,
warm and deep like music,
their pulses still playing strains that were drifting away from me,
refrains forgotten.

And when they would speak,
I'd feast, and and be filled.
"I love you," they'd say, one at a time.
"I forgive you,
I forgive you,
I forgive."