I keep holding onto your daisies,
even though I should have planted
them on your grave stone.
I can't seem to let go of your scent,
the one you had glued to your skin.
These memories I still etch,
lips and hints of your past,
are not yet framed in my house
for you live discreetly, with me.
The sea hurls my unfinished work
and paintings half- coated,
toward its labored hole,
but even as I am immersed
in my overpowering compulsion,
I reiterate your menus
and quotes from a prisoner's cell.
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