I move my fingers, they come undone, falling onto the tile, yet I try to finish making dinner for one.
I grip the phone in my limp palm, but it falls right off, and I can't make that last call to you.
I hug myself, holding tight, and my arms roll right off into my bed, occupying the space someone once slept.
I walk to the store to pick up what's necessary to me now, and my feet slip off like untied shoes, unmoving on the sidewalk as I crawl onwards.
I swing on my swingset, but my legs jostle off as I jump, leaving me limp on the too-green lawn.
I look up to the cloudless sky, enjoying it, even after my head has detached and wheeled away from my neck.
I cry long-lasting, fresh tears, and my face gently peels away from my skull like a mask, the seams that once held it closely, inseperably, to me, let go.
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