Now That He’s Gone


After all the things
He spent with me… I was
Never a note — a flower — only
A brief connecting flight.
I am not the type
Clinging to security — yet —
What once were fingers
On delicate hand, are
Crooked — Clawing.
Howbeit his snake coiled,
Relents its wring. And slow release…
Relieves my grief.

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