Eyes meet.
Tongues talk.
Lips greet.
Bodies fuck.
Love is beautiful —
until it isn’t.
Deaths don’t come
with a notice to serve.
And yet,
you beg for closures —
like love
was ever linear.
Like love
wasn’t poetry.
And poetry?
It doesn’t end
with a period.
It ends
like an old handwritten letter
you can't bring yourself to burn —
his words still asking
if you’re home.
Poetic justice goes to die in poetry.
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