"pulp"
i told you part with me,
your story will remain the
same. the world will not come
crashing down & notes will
not fold themselves.
i can still see where the margin
breaks. a life type faced in black
font. don't panic-
wake up every morning &
kill the same dream.
& when i'm gone i'll become
more streamlined; rather
i will speak in the way paper
folds. my poems will be as
flowers next to hospital beds.
paper are hearts hung while a
piano carries on. without you i
will bring back the dead.
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