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May 2011
Right before I called,
I imagined ---
is there anything left other than
Pages yellow in time
and red ink becomes wine stronger than
your average cooler
that settles.
When bottles clink
and drown bubbles endlessly,
when the fiz dilutes memory
always fondled with friends.

Is there anything left
other than pages?

I have your fingerprint and the
scent of your hair fading
like your name in my eyes.

Nothing's left when stubs have
burned the last of crumpled letters
into ashes,
and the ember consumes
what I remember the most.
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