HIs white walk

hardens in that place between my spine

and my skull–

It feels like holding back tears

and scattered fever chills–

like scraping rusty metal with my splitting fingernail

until the sound numbs my arm

and I cannot speak.

But it is the

last new memory I have

of him.



will not bury it


“Gone” by Angie Hoover-HillhouseĀ 

Artwork: Our Great Love Story by Agnes Cecille

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