betty

your voice is like an empty tin can

an orange leaf in late-november clumsily clinging to the tree

a worn record played on repeat

like you're gargling sugar

like cherry cough medicine

a fog that warms the stale air of your assisted living bedroom

a new song played on an 83-year-old piano

like chocolate covered potato chips

like your heart has taken up residence in your throat

echoes in an empty concert hall













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