Those beautiful bones.

Why does it seem to hold
that it is easier to write about death
than it is about love?
Why must the two be mutually exclusive?

Both offer the same skeleton,
it is we ourselves 
who dress their bones in rags and baubles.

Both bring us release,
ceasing our focus on tomorrow.
They offer us a quietness inside
where every person we have ever been asks questions 
in hopes of getting answers that don't exist.

Neither will reject you,
and while their unending observation may seem daunting,
(how can we ever hope to match eternity ourselves?)
the lack of choice implicit in that 
draws our yearning for a peace.

To make a last and final choice,
while it may be the hardest
it may also be the easiest.
To feel that burden of responsibility for your own existence roll off your back
is a desire I think every conscious being shares.