Drifting Poem by Ibn Ali

If I died, and you heard,
When told, would I be a loss of breath between two words,
A stumble, a stammer,
Or would you excuse yourself and bury me under an ocean of tears,
I wonder,
Drives home I replay the ending,
Editing, rewording,
Creating an alternate version,
One where I didn't walk away,
One where we both met as virgins,
And as I steer the lanes,
That wanderer comes back to me,
I'm speeding,
I kiss the brakes softly as I would do you,
And move over,
Join the safe and slower,
You see, the jewel of my crown is nothing fancy,
Men have grazed her heart,
But none yet kissed her soul so free and gladly,
I miss her,
She knows, the grasp she has on me,
A wrestler's hold, contorted,
In breaking free from being strangled,
I'm grunting, straining every sinew, clawing,
The veins take their fill,
Pertruding, I fight to breathe,
Every breath draws me closer to sleep,
And find myself resigned and beaten