A frozen red rose – beautifully pressed, nestled rather, against the tip of his forehead
Even if he does die this will undoubtedly get to be the very last thing that he sees
One entinguished eye-lid at a painstaking time
No real rhyme and no real reason, yet this constant need to breathe some kind of final life per se, some momentary reminder on through it has turned out to be just an all too obvious thing
If he fails to fall one heaving, reawakened breathe at a sudden time, then these smile-again petals will begin to press themselves and their rejuvenated skin against his mirror-image leather in one manner – tit for tat – a little more altogether

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