a series of metaphors about deathMature

We are breathing even though there are silver nodules
all over our lungs, pulsing, bruising, growing
in ways we cannot see or feel but we know it anyway
like the way I know the shape of our love.
Have you ever been able to taste an ending in the air?
The way it sours everything reminds me of how grief
tastes in the back of my throat when I stand over graves,
lavender mist swallowing up the tombstones, reaching 
for my ankles, and I let it have them. 
It is not the pale quiet that I am afraid of.

The End

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