13 May, 2016


Still, I have flirted with Death
even though I never say the words I’m supposed to

I can remember the sounds of voices best
and have woven clouds with silent string
that no one will ever be able to see

I have no interest in solving this mystery
In retracing past cowardices

There isn’t a way to write all of it down
A faith robbed and then sleuthed
somehow knowing the whole time

It’s nearly impossible to know
when the last time will be

I can’t write this story
No one ever remembers how it ends
Coquettish grief keeps doors from shutting tightly

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