she digs deep,
pats the loose soil
until it is solid again.
Then moves on,
leaves no roses to
remember it by,
not even looking back
except in dread that
it might rise up
out of the earth to harm her,
feeling nothing else
over its loss,
just the practicality
of being rid of it,
once it has gone,
she in the window
of her kitchen,
smoldering cigarette
between her lips,
her brother playing
music on a paper clip,
the only dirge love gets
once it is dead,
like a bad joke, or worse,
one with a predictable punch line,
she, piling on,
pushing this thing
she never wanted
back down just to keep it
from haunting her again,
a presence in the present
she needs to keep in the past,
it, me or whatever else,
an afterthought,
an engraved memory
on a marble slab or perhaps,
not even that,
a lost soul among all those
other lost souls
buried beside it.
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