The footsteps of his atrocious ambling
are agonizing ticks
in the hospital halls.
"Please leave,"
are words which never escape my throat,
because they are swallowed.
They are swallowed.
The flowers are left,
but I'm not dead.
Sympathetic scents.
Do we leave these on graves,
because we're hoping the dead will smell them when we turn away?
Granted, they want to.
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