The Writer

In your story
I am the harbinger of doom;
hardly named,
I am namely a naked body
in your room.
Or a ghost.
Or a sound drowned out by rain.
On your page I am made
no more than the sum
of my parts.
In each one of your retellings,
you rebuild the breasts,
but not the heart.
I mean, I envy your precision,
but I’d hardly call it art.

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