I linger on the thought
of the dead
bat
stuck between home
and pipe.
it's been there for so
long.
once alive, a soft harsh life,
a grey
streak at dusk,
with pin black eyes,
wings made of pointed canvas,
stretched out
into a falling night.
but here it is.
years later.
empty. unmoving.
she pointed it out to
me.
this omen.
this death.
showing me what was to
come. it told me everything.
that all things
between us would
never be right.
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