they slid their feet
grass blades bent
among humid air and
freshly-washed sheets.
laundry flapped in the wind
while underneath their bodies
lied an unfinished book
their confession too long
to write the ending.
blood-stained fingertips
hit the back-space button
and life with broken spine
and tattered pages
was wrapped in ironed,
pure-white Egyptian cotton,
800 ply.

Poetry

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