After they are gone,
we are translations of soft violence,
like nails on a cement floor, rustic and cold.
We understand grief, everywhere and every time, like a child knowing the shape of mother's lap.
We use our words as commodities to buy cigarettes only to put them out on our open wounds.
The nausea of Camus's essays  leans towards us, waiting for the act of osmosis in a quite haze.
We fold ourselves neatly, the creases caused by the weight of dreams, nearly tucked under the hands, and find that they take a lot of space, before burning them down.
Loneliness has so many hues and iterations, we find, trying to build a corner for ourselves in our house.
The naive carvings of the names in unanswered letters change themselves into Monets waterlilies in a cup of tea we used to have with them. 
After they are gone, we pay homage to love, trying to break free but still keeping a loose thread,
so even when the kisses on the lips are ready to get evaporated,
we try to saturate our memories, fighting the time, the June rain wash away a summer's warmth.
Within our sunken eye sockets love poems sit, gargling salt solutions because they have sore throats.
And we become euphemisms, like the poem we are trying to write.

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