Soon everyone will be drinking tea
and smiling weakly
about the argument the night before
Oh, I still love them, of course
I’m just being dramatic today
Tangled memories left in piles
on a handmade table
wait to be filtered and pressed
like flowers,
safe, dormant
The stench of death meanwhile,
quite lazily disguised,
remains stuck
to everyone’s bones
like a putrid barnacle
Soon we will all drink our tea
and try to forget those
common, wilted griefs we carry
hoping to remain loved
by an immortal
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