Mom said the bouquet was
the last thing grandma held
& one day,
like the petals,
grandma too withered.

Everything shape-shifts
into nothingness here
& second chance
is a cookie jar.

As time grayed older,
so did the note.
crumbling,
folding into itself
with each passing twilight.

One night, at half past light
i grabbed the bouquet by the throat
& plucked out the note
so my eyes may
devour every of its cursed line
but all the words made no sense
for every letter had
lost their inks & girths
leaving only faint scars
of what once was said,
as I search for meaning
in a note long read.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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