I would like to be
your citrus-scented shampoo,
leaving only whispers
of what I once was
while I cling to you.
I would like to meet
your darkened pupils
as you scan the crowd,
passing over me
and on to other faces.
I would like to brush
arms as we cross
on a crowded street,
your worn flannel leaving
fireworks on my arm.
I would like to be
your dying succulent,
remembered just often enough
to be kept alive but always
an after thought.
I would like to be
your last breath,
knowing that no other
lover will ever dance
across your tongue

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