Ana has her hold on me

I like my tea green,

And my coffee black.

I like having a cigarette,

Alone,

Early in the morning.

I like thunderstorms,

In the middle of summer.

I like to stop and smell the flowers,

And feel the sun warm my face,

On long walks.

I like the color black,

For its modesty and silence.

But even as my hair thins,

My nails break,

My skin turns pale.

Even as bones starts to show,

My hands tremble,

And I become constantly cold.

This distance of my eyes tell 

That I can't enjoy these things.

Because my heart is too weak to pump,

My legs are too weak to bring me places,

And my arms can't hold myself up.

A slow but nearly painless death,

Yet I am not afraid,

Of what awaits me on the other side.