It’s like putty, really –
Meticulously sculpted,
Resting among collarbones.
You can count four chambers,
Spot an aorta,
Trace each pulsing vein,
But it’s just a shade too gray,
Misshapen, lumpy,
Stained with dust and debris.
And there are fingerprints,
Dozens of them, and scars
Where others were cut away.
You don’t mention it
Until he tells you to fix it.
Make things like they were before.
“Will I be erased, too?”
“No, you’re different.
Your prints will last. Just fix me.”
So you reach in,
Mold it gently, still,
there’s a smudge here or there.
You came so close,
But he still feels changed.
You’ve failed him.
You watch him cut the pieces away,
Every bit you’ve cared for or touched,
So no one will know you were there.
And the next person in line steps up.
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