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About Love

You left your shirt here
but it is not a car ride
or telephone call
to touch you anymore.
Heater clinking
reading noise
cannot fill this gift box
spilled of summer,
the trees, the cat,
all required to try
and die,
only prove your presence.
And you left Hell here.
While looking for traces
and tasting you in every paperback
we bought at Annie's,
in pillow choices,
in record albums,
you become louder
until I fall
missionary position
under your red
and ripping
E M P T Y
and curl 
within you, ghost,
a fetus too raw
to crawl out the door
to leave you
or love you.

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