love is the part of me that dies,

the lip crusted with obscurity,
the finger gnarled in the oak.
the glance that parts the clouds,
the broom forgotten on the porch.
the single parent cooking macaroni,
the dog curled at the foot of the bed.
the rent receipt in the ashtray,
grass that needs to be mowed.
the same jeans the third day,
dirty laundry, and shoes left by the door.
the book closed, the turned down page,
the light bulb that burned out Tuesday.
the distance you stare into,
shaving with a dull razor and cold water.
wilted flowers on the mantle,
the cup of coffee grown cold.
the split of lightning across your thighs,
the bark just before you came.
knee prints in old graveyards,
while protestants flinch in disgust.
your grandmother’s grave,
and your father’s silence,
beneath eons of dirt and time.
the tongue that startled ancient Greece,
and built pyramids by hand.
the ancient ruins of my soul,
where your demons dance by firelight.
and my body stinking of ashes,
left too long in the rain….
love is the part of me that dies,
time and again, day by minute!

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