I’ve kept the bone-ash circle open—
chalked in wax traced from your last reply,
the one you coughed out sideways
between a mirror and an echo,
Just to reiterate, it read.
(Though you’ve unsent it now—
the smoke still mouths it back.)
The salt forgets which door to guard,
whether you're enemy or friend.
My tea leaves knot themselves
into nooses. The knife won’t...
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