I Find it Strangely Comforting
by Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue

that some patch of dust
on that hard-to-get-to shelf yonder
could be dead skin cells
sloughed off
her bent, pain-racked body
more than 2 years ago now.

Or that some microbial creature
still spirals
through my twisted, maze-like intestines,
a parting gift from her,
one last kiss,
that last time
we shared bodily fluids.

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