Speaking to the Dead

I didn’t hear your last words or see your last eyes. I didn’t reach you in time, so I sat by your corpse, silently saying goodbye. I am in that process, not sour, not sweet, that yoked speaking which can’t (because the heart won’t let it) utter its whispered last word, but stutters instead like the awful-eyed idiot of love, stroking a hand and thinking it speech. Nothing pulses now from your cold, dead palm; No sounds exit, no language leaks. You’re beyond the infinite weakness of words; I’m still in their thrall, caught in the thrashing eloquence of...

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