Don’t come

I don’t want warm fingertips touching my name.

I won’t feel those left-to-rust letters,

not even read them—Don’t come

 

with lashes under waterproof mascara

for same-day return flight

—those wings were mine.

 

No need of somber daisies,

I won’t pick petals anymore.

Naked of all care to unclose my eyes,

 

I’ll be quieter, simpler, easier

to understand. Don’t knock on the stone,

I won’t be around

 

as whisper, as tickling, as shadow,

nor sudden silence, no crying wolf.

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You won’t find me. I’ll be gone.

 

My every sunset consumed in tundra,

devoured by questions that tore skin and

dreams. Forget it—nevermore.

 

My best smile, my blessed hands, my better world,

nothing will be left of them. Don’t come,

it’ll be late. You should have come earlier,

 

you shouldn’t have gone.

This stolen flower pressed between our lives

never wilted; yet,  you didn’t know.

 

Your constant walls, my depth of doubts, our equal loss,

blow them off into the night.

But don’t come,

 

once I’m gone—I swear,

not even as a tiny blade of grass—

never, I will never return.

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