I feel a need
to write a poem
just not about death
but it’s being written anyway
an image of someone
back turned walking away
it’s dark not sightless black
so I see a silhouette retreat
no face ghostly out of sight
I don’t think that’s her
maybe death itself
leaving after a bed visit
which just might mean
what I think it means
I call her leave a happy message
the sun is back another good sign
I look out the window
at the wind tickling leaves
too jumpy to sit still
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