When someone decides to cut ties with you, their words feel like a guillutine.
The arc of teeth the rising and falling of words Transcribing tangled knots sayings nonsensical Incisors gnashing bone scrapes the blade. Keep searching, keep searching, they are meant to be found, to be bound by record. Between both pens at the side of the skull Is the archive of every schmuck sentenced To receive the cold descent Upon the neck’s nape that feels frigid Is the greeting of a friend’s final conversation.
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