Afterthought 907—Sonnet -3

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/15
"So as," I said, "I don't expect to stay
the night, don't make room for me in your bed."
"Fine since," she stood to see me out, "you're dead
to me. I would have trashed you anyway."
"I know," I told myself, "I heard you say
as much. Keep any substitute instead. 
Give him all these words we never said."
"Laissez-moi tranquille s'il vous plaît."
Hard moonlight in my eyes, endless outside:
the distances press in on me, no hurt
embracing me, no poison to my blood
except drowned deep in contagion's flood,
abandoned like a common clump of dirt—
the hell of every death she claims she died.  


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