2:55:00 PM

There is a peculiar detachment humming
Through the space between your lips and my ears.
You are dying.
These are not the words you speak but the words,
The words I’ve become all too comfortable with
Perhaps I coined the idea.
Melancholic is the design, but this is not my fix.
Liberation is a fix for you are trapped.
Your insanity will be your demise.
Or perhaps it will be the liquor.
Soft pink lips
Speak cacophonous words.
Death, death, death.
They whisper.
But their beauty alludes to contradictory truth.
The rubble in my soul
Is in self-declared apathy,
Self-conceived. Conceited.
I haven’t an inkling concerning the capacity I’ve developed,
To love death.
So I musn’t love you.
For you epitomize its glare
Its stench and its inevitability.
Gruesome its thoughts and dark their implications
Yet, you are dying.
And I am alive.

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