It’s hard for my body
to know the difference
between a you gone,
and a you here.
Your mute breath inhales
all my words,
leaving only that
you like.

I fill the disconnection with songs;
and you fill me with your dispassion.
It pierces my throat,
it floods my lungs
with silence,
with cold liquid lament.

You place me on a shelf,
with little deaths you’ve collected,
in the emulsion of
hollow passion,
and the secret-
that my silence, my nothing, is your favorite sound.
One you will echo.

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