i know to snub her.
if she mentions beauty
i think incongruity.
as she talks of comfort
i imagine a familiar form -
snailing, snuggling, scuffling you.
she waits at the cusp,
between dawn and dusk,
between tomorrow and tomorrow,
as i vanish into dusty death.
she lays photograph after photograph
like petals for me to walk on.
i watch, straddling mind's webbed feet;
each photograph the ghost of a single past
ready to haunt future memories.
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