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Every thing begins to fade
in the afternoon. It is no trick
of my manias, It is the light.
It tells none of and all of the lies.
What is not already
dead is dying.
Then there will be you
and there will be me, sitting in a
lawn chair in the lucent circle
of Luna’s last fragment.
I will be smoking a cigarette
and re-memorizing your scent
by subtraction. When it hits
I hope I go first. I would rather
never be without you.
The image in the post is an adaptation of a photograph by Tessa Sheremeta via Flickr.
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