The Quiet of You by Duane Kirby Jensen

I linger here,
near your body,
which has forgotten how to breathe.

Footsteps sound from floors above,
people doing the ordinary things of the living,
unaware of your contorted form.

It is 3 am. Crinkling plastic shatters silence,
morticians entombing your body for transportation.
Days of ritual and remembrance await.

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