When I Die

When an oxygen mask takes the place of you and IV's cover my arms like ivys on brick homes, listen for me. I will speak to you with my foot, tapping along to the computer beep, the last time I spoke with my mother and the machine translated. I, like her, will tap quickly, out of sync, until I know you are there. And if, when you drink from the mug made from clay the water stops at the brink, there I will kiss you forever.