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You are buried

under 6 feet
of fire, ice, tears,
& even love;
little glints of it,
like sunlight hitting
chrome of car bumpers.

You are buried

in the odd photo;

in memories
as vivid as your face
illuminated orange
before you blow out a match;

in several mementos
collected, overshadowed,
in a drawer.

Fragments of phrases
accumulate beneath my pillow.
But in the morning,
all I have in my closet
are shoes

instead of skeletons.


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