Morning Truths

When you wake
looking for me
one last time –

remember:
silently, how cold
I was, the night

no one came.
Dry your tears
in her soft hair –

where memories, of me,
will be carried away
by armies of lice.

It would be fitting,
to grind, what is left,
of me, to dust: spread it,

over your new hearth;
she won’t notice;
not underneath –

all that is new,
where the passions
of your home fires

burn, I will fade
in morning cinders,
and you can tell her:

‘I never had a life,
not before you’
it can be true.

-LJ

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