Desolate

My organs just fell down the sink one by one and, hard as I try, all is unreachable. My nails are black from probing and twisting, but they are gone. Warmth from the thirtieth sun, the glistening of sidewalk, my depart, my return, his fingerprints, the needles and the thread from my skin all swiveled down that filthy piping. That day even the notes smelled of home.
They tell me that they will end up in the dust. Here’s hoping. That way I can rejoin them again.

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