weltschmerz
the wary thought
of october graves
in autumn sunrise
her name and yours
on an open letter for
the future young, as
old boats unfurl their
paper sails and the
breeze flows north
so often they whisper
—
“oh, i wish you had
never said a word”
their lacklustre ire
lesions seeping into
bandages and coffee
grounds and the very
last time you saw her
alive that day, of the
very last time you ever
felt alive, that fateful day
—
what more is left now?
statues still into monuments
and the gentlest reminder
of a violent decision that
carved another number
into your mausoleum, and
hers—it’s a strange way to
love, to unravel with her skin;
to twist, and to fade, and to
be the breath she always saves.
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