When I die, I’d like Ramana to be painted on my lips,


his name graven into the shivering fish of my mouth,


each tooth an alphabet of his, 


each letter sending home


a gift of love so true, 


the body rendered useless,


 skin just memory of a you that never existed, 


a life’s dream,




and the funeral:


a steady, yielding, unrelenting kiss 


that drifts simply


into emptiness, 


into endlessness.

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