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A Sunday Morning in September

A color that has no name
A strange twist upon your mouth
Lying outstretched on the floor
Your head slumped awkwardly against the wall
The image seared in my mind
Haunting dreams that I'd arrived in time
Only to have you die again and again
Night after night
I run my fingers across your name
Etched in gold lettering on the cold marble
That separates my hands from your hands
And your world far from mine

27 May 07

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haunting indeed. great word use, very honest poem and probably difficult to write down.
 — humblebee

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