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Half-Staff

I mourn
you from this distance
of earth and anger,
even after all this time.

Sirens wail
like a woman keening.
My hands are empty
of wondering how to hold you again.
I am too late for rituals–
black cars like long sighs
have already come and gone,
leaving only ashes behind.

I keep hearing your voice;
it keeps raining,
off and on,
even when the sun shines.
I ask why,
constantly,
but only the wind replies
in words of silent whispers.

Can you see my heartbeat;
can you see regret flowing
through my veins like blood?

If you were hear,
I would listen; I would
speak of lips and life and love.

I would make
you repeat
the words after me.

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