poem: what is this last breathe

What is this last breathe,

like the song that was the first song she heard,

when,

crouched in the bushes she undid herself

for the book in her

hands,

and the boy in her soul, who is now many miles away,

who is now,

slipping himself into pages, into the fainter spots between

bleeding ink, almost like the ship-scars

over his wrists that she kissed;

over and inside the mouth that she wrote for him;

and under

the careful places on his lips where tears

come for retribution.

 

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