My head clangs, my skin congeals when I imagine your final terrain: the moldering gloom of the cave, giant stone corking the mouth to seal your body in— you bid me to imitate you, even in this? Until you rise, Love, I am useless. Stretching in a long rectangle of wall-shade, I pretend my hand crumbles dank sepulchral dirt. Listen. In the corner, one cricket abides. Soft-shelled and tooth-white, he chirrs his dwarfed wings, persistent song his answer to the absence of light.
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