She sits two feet away
And regrets that she cannot kiss him.
One day - perhaps you’ll recognize it,
Or just as likely not -
There will be a final darkened milkweed pod,
Burst and letting its seeds take the wind.
Death is an indoor matter
(Almost always)
Happening in beds that are not close enough to windows
Nor to the ones we love most.
The last slips in the door before it’s bidden.
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