Epilogue
I think I am through,
done writing about you, your hands,
your voice, your mistakes. Your loss.
We both got exactly what we deserved.
Know this: if I could go back, there
are things that I would change.
Your propaganda I would rewrite
in less certain terms. I would not have you
selling yourself as an ever or an after,
just a stopping point, a long layover, my body,
your temporary residence. My address
has changed for the better. Flowers
grow here. I have finally
outrun the taste of loss.
Cotton mouth is curable,
and laryngitis, temporary.