that you can kiss away
on other's cracked lips.
Sitting here
in a room of boxes and chipping swatches
of paints
you cannot pretend I am entropy
and pass me on to
the floundering tendrils
of tomorrow's marigold.
Your palms rest
on the hood of a wooden table
and you will feel my pulse
in the pulp.
It is almost like breathing,
almost like respirating
smog.
You're in my lungs,
ether dripping from capillary
to capillary.
If you were to wring my inside out
onto wax paper
the fibrous petals would curl
in some remembrance of your form.
I've loved you where
you don't exist.
And since you have been
in the deepness,
"It was time"
doesn't explain how we stopped
breathing.
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