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An Untitled Poem 

My. G*d. The smell on oncology is unbearable.
Feces, death, gravy... overwhelming.
The dead moss... undeniable. How could it be?
We survived this Winter together and now, you are
Void of color.
I watched you, fed you with my eyes,
warmed you with my breath -
it melting the glass between us,
double panes and all.
My damp exhales roll over you
(you close your eyes),
then lay on you.
Thick then quickly cooling.
I am not sad, I saw this coming.
My ritual of loving you
has exposed itself, and flown away.

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  • An untitled poem by Elizabethanne Spiotta.


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