in a locked room
after we leave?
I suspect our ghosts arrive
like tourists, and
sit and feed off of
the memories of
what once was,
stories glazed with sweetness
as the world turns dark
and then light again.
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See Allof me, little by little little bites sinking into old wounds every time and I let her because just like the trees open their hands to the snow I do love the idea of dying slowly loved and afraid and b
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