Remnants of the End of Me

If you were to hand me a photograph

of his naked soul, I’d

hold it by the very edges so

the chance of smudging his

snide smile would be slim.

I might look away after the exchange

as to not embarrass his bare

bones, and I’d put it in a black

frame to contrast

the liveliness in his eyes. My

bookcase, now coated in

dust, would be

his new home, and I’d

never be lonely again.

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