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Dying Breath Exhaling salt spoons of air she turns the pages of the good book that she is. She knows she is dying. Her eyelids flicker with whispers in the room. Her pink body is fading to pearl, her gold hair blowing like chaff. Her muscles lie loose. They are pulling away from the senses shedding the taste of lemons, the smell of roses, the color blue. Her last thoughts wait in the corners of her mouth resting as white froth until they are dabbed softly away. The breath climbs up the ladder of her bones. The lamp turns down. The good book closes. Carol Sanger |
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