365 Days of Poetry: Day One-Hundred and Six

let me dream of mourning.
and have it not be real.

I remember the last time we spoke.
I remember how to feel.

There are not many I call bro.
You were one of three.

I pour shots upon a grave.
I made to make it sink in.

But no liquor dulls the pain.
Of you being taken from me.

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About June Faramore

Writer of fantasy, mainstream, and young adult fiction. Poet and sketcher. Mother. I read a lot and love cheese. Guitar playing singer-songwriter. I also enjoy stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk. View all posts by June Faramore

this side, that side

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