The mirror’s white-
a warm shower just ceased to be.
I drop one leg in my jeans,
half-filling them with me.
A blue vein on my wrist-
ticking, I can see.
Chipped nail-paint, tan-
No, I don’t need the mirror to tell me.
Separation. What will tomorrow be like?
Frail like the past.
An outcast.
Separation? Can it be?
Upon beading your name into my breath,
He tied the thread across the neck of death.
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