Riffing off of the lines, "Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather, / There is a house that is no more a house / Upon a farm that is no more a farm / And in a town that is no more a town."
I see so little of you now, so now you are every
face on the street and every bend in the breeze.
Immovable, like bruised fruit, the taste of your name
lasts. Settles evenly through my things: a worn frown
in the bill of your hat, your programmed alarms for
early mornings, the permanent ring left on my nightstand
from a cup you swore by. I don't hate it's company
as much anymore. But even it has grown silent.
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