(For our patron Bunbury)
We lay ourselves full out.
String our souls long like mozzarella
Until they pool on the page.
We rub out fingers into it
Until it loosens.
Add perfumes,
Add tints.
Then we paint with it.
It takes a while,
And with each new sheet,
Every added detail,
We move slower;
Our tanks run lower.
One day the engine will seize,
The gears dry and tight.
Our bodies slumped against the desk,
Amid piles of paper.
After enough time, when we decompose,
And each iota becomes airborne,
It will mix with the faded scents.
If someone stumbles upon it,
We can only hope they understand
The completeness of that moment.
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