A yellow beak curving away
from a bright plastic body, orange
and clean, gleaming as a clock's
arms ticking. The twisted sheets
for another day go unwashed.
My skin winking, my lashes
I can feel them against my cheek
and the body's sweet sinking
it remains, chiming as if to press
the point that loss goes on living.
I can't bear to see your things
again, not without you with them.
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