the red blotch on the asphalt
was not. could not be. red.
more of the grey. grainy and rough,
like a dead puddle.
the road-marks kept silence
and shone in the dark
till the cars all left
and their headlights with them.
in the dark,
all red is black.

what will remain when/as
the liquid that was life
coagulates, passing
into an abstract art form.
the body is gone now — no
trace is left of their thoughts,
what they saw in the mirror,
what coffee preferred, which
flowers they brought for their love.

old roses — the sweet,
sickly, sticky smell that travels
on the breath of the wind —
disperse along with the vague memories
of the bird-cherry blossoms
when all was alright, yes
it is never the knife.


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