The Netherworld Petit Four

Out of nowhere her scent appears.

And I forget that she’s dead.

I imagine the skin attached to the air

I’m inhaling. I try to hold it.

As I held you to not let you go

Where I won’t be able to find you amongst

A mass of decomposed particles and perfumes.


If I stretched out my arms and created winds,

Released my tongue, time would stand still and

It would all be gone. The moment of you needs to pass

And I need to walk, not to the rhythm of you,

But I’m still dancing to the tune of your voice.

You’re so close, I cannot move.

You ran through me and your soul was within mine, again.


“Buste de femme de profil” by Georges Clairin (1843-1919)

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