To walk away
would be to pull heads
from stems
of the flowers in your hair
that you wore when I met you –
grown from the grounds that grew you.
It would be to shatter bones
with hands laid bare,
to breathe the fine powder
that reeks of the promise
to the you and me
who were stifled and stacked like old things,
put away with surfaces fractured by veins
made when two people
forced their contours to align.
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