Saturday, November 21, 2015

Dead to me

I speak your name.  You lay still and rotten. The perfume of the flowers you hold have been forgotten. Your skin is discolored, though its softness lingers, I cannot stroke your hair lest it cling to my fingers. Your eyes are darkened and unsupported. Your hands are pruned.  Your face is contorted. I fail to recall your beauty, as hard as I try. I move to kiss you. your lips are dry.

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