Postmortem Hyperthymesia

It’s not especially fun
To resurrect your own death.
It’s not like you’re immortal—

Your past happens to include
Picture-perfect memory
Of the exact date you died.

Unsurprisingly, it’s not
An allocentric recall.
It’s mostly body centered.

The exhaustion as you stopped
At the dark overlook, but
Pushed on, a long-haul trucker

With a specific deadline,
Which you felt compelled to meet.
The solitude, the matter

Of fact way your brain went on
With whatever it still could,
Maybe talking to itself,

Maybe only hearing tunes.
And at some point, there you were,
The doom discovered, achieved,

All ready to tell someone
About how your last day went,
No one around to believe.