Somewhere there is a glass vase,
with white Lilly's wilted at the edges.
A pile of letters, unceasing.
Always arriving.
A candle half its lifespan.
A hair laying between the creases of her sweater.
I suppose we go bit by piece, sometimes having not knowing.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 12:50 AM UTC
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