Some Things Have Died

It's cold out on the balcony and you
haven't told me if you feel
alive or not, that's how it works

I'm standing holding your hair in my hands
wherever you've gone they're keeping you
likely lilac fresh; soon you'll be embalmed,

only then we'll view all you fixed up
twisted in your last dream, still lying
right to our fucking faces, I hope

By echoshindig