The fragrant taste
in my mouth, it was your name.
the mic just inches from
my trembling lips
I clear my throat.
You get people’s attention by
how desperate they perceive this sound.
“Why don’t you start talking?”
you ask in that chair
you’ve dragged in the middle of the aisle. Right in front of everyone.
All their faces default sympathy.
Default expressions.
They suffocate.
So I look at you. . .
still beautiful with formaldehyde gone.
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