That complicated hurt
where a passing person
leaves a large hole on exiting the body
than they did coming in.

They say the cometary trail
burns bright as that last shot of whiskey
that eventually it will not hurt
and you will laugh your perfect sitcom laugh
into the fantastical friday night sister act
a small sad memory for the guy
who offered to teach me how to make sangria once
and now he never will.

There's a trick with the brandy, he said
something about the wine, maybe or
a proprietary mix of citrus, that makes
my eyes widen as I watch the lemon branches
the day before the fall.

Or smelled the flowers as I watched
the turning backs.

Exit wounds they name them
the closing lines, the curtain call.
That larger than life bastard
and the slow-moving shooting star.

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