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collective

i have milked your death for poetry.

i've milked your loss.

i've milled your absence into identity
a fine beautiful powder.
a sooty kajal.
collected from a lamp
burning night and day
in the mind.

hasn't everything that was to be written
been written?
is their anything at all that's unique
about today's pain
than yesterday's

than the fact that i still feel it perhaps
and therefore must
express.

perhaps this loss will become collective
perhaps that will be why
we will come to each other
to lean.

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