Saturday, April 16, 2011

16/30: eulogy

Sometimes all the words
are written, or spoken.
There's an inviting silence -
worthy and restful.
But sometimes, as it is
with you,
all the words are dead.
Decomposing and overgrown
with weeds,
you killed everything.
But the
words went first.
Nothing I can scrape
together will ever
resemble what used to be
between us.

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