White Lilies,
funeral attire. Apt.
Each celebration garishly hung
with anxiety and words pushed with
ugly ceremony from mouths
by swollen tongues just
trying to get at each other,
unthinking and salted.
I’m here I’m here I didn’t leave but
you were gone all along;
with your towel hung to dry
in the winter. The damp left behind
clinging, condensation echoing
conversations, as though it were only
this morning.

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