She lives on inside a clone
of whispers she left on your phone
and though you’ll never be alone
with her she lingers
You play those whispers one by one
the heat the hurt then Chekhov’s gun
you’re a third act prop, bud, one among
the necessary fingers
There is no wound for you to heal
no letter waiting for your seal
no lips to kiss no breath to feel
commingling
We leave it to the great unknown
the seer’s tea, the witches bones
smash it on a runic stone
her siren singing
The Hour is Coming, and Now Is 