Remnants
There is always something
unspeakable in what remains—
a fractured spectrum of what once was,
scattered in the leftover bits:
half-maimed, dismembered,
and quietly rejected,
in what we scrape into the compost bin.
Every spick and speck reeks
of the aftertaste of endings —
with our recycled grief and rejection
dissolving in the detritus
of what we could not finish.
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