How I wish to die

The air has your color

the memory of its own,

repeatable sense to remind

me how hips shared hunger and

joined hands traveled the same path

of untold story.

 

The time tastes after your touch,

after the sound of every stripped

particle, wanting to get lost

in you, collided with the meaning

of existence.

 

And the space collected every drip

skipped from the lip, a tear, a sweat,

scorched on the bathroom floor

fossilized witness of how I wish to

die – curled in you, sigh extant.

Maja S. Todorovic

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