I asked for this.

The unfortunate sunsets and hollow sunrises.

The smell of your clothes and the silence there after.

I fold my hands to pray to bring an end.

Nothing works.

I still see your face.

Those little soft hairs on your neck

that were golden and beautiful

and it cements everything.


Raymond Mitchell Strickland Jr.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

For Cathy Solis

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