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?

|