NO REMISSION
It seems you must grow into your death slowly, as if it were a pair of new shoes waiting on the closet floor, smelling of the animal it came
from, but still too big too stiff for you to wear.
Meanwhile you dance barefoot your shaky dance of pretence, and we dance with you, the pulses in our own wrists ticking away.
In this small truce the body waits, having waged war on itself for years.
You say the water tastes of flowers.
You steal on tiptoe past the closet door.
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