Today, I picked up a piece of red,
fluttering just at the edge of my eye
like the color of the shirt you wore the first
time we danced
I caught the strain of your voice,
the way it's always a little bit hoarse,
but never harsh
I tucked it into my pocket
I keep finding all these pieces
of you, of us,
I expect each to slice me open,
scatter blood on the grass
They don't.
Not anymore.
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