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Not a Moral Beauty Contest

One Numerous Loss

by Musa Alves Guillerman

Arriving at your funeral, was a scary thing to do.

Afraid of seeing you; but seeing them, that was scary too.

A graveyard of friendships. Expired. Looking for some human brace.

But we all had resurrected. All for your sake.

You lying softly in a box, while we bumped into each other.

Maneuvering in ways, as to not disturb you, dead brother.

But selfishly, it was me that did not want disturbance.

Turned away with cringe, from the faces wet, missed chances.
Let’s not. No need. Don’t. Please. Fine. ‘How are you?’

Looking at the backs of those that I once knew;

Those backs stayed facing me, but were looking at you.

Good. Stay away from me, and remember him as you do.

Leaving us (me) suffering, to live, as a damned form of leverage.

Even you, withdrew, for nights of wired, social tethers.

I put so much faith in phantoms. Boy, do I regret it.

***

I don’t blame them though. Bed pans and biopsies don’t

Mix well with rum, and coke.


Musa Alves