BONES
,

BONES

This is the last of the butcher paper

left on the roll. I don’t know

what happens after this.

The midday sun is at its perfect moment,

now, as you drive away. Nothing stirs

nothing changes. The air in my room seems still;

afraid to breathe, afraid to remember.

Your cobwebs, your bones

Will soon be just a memory….

There is now this space between us.

What a traitor the body is;

“Thank you for making my life…”

And that’s the end of the story?