They tax your body a surcharge for each state line you pass through: your body accrues debt. You are now the joining of the only two certainties we know in life: death and taxes. The long, cool casket slips into the plane like a bullet for its magazine: fully loaded, I expect it must explode. Your hair grows. The plane taxis and bolts off. The shadow you both cast will not change shape despite your nearness to the sun. Today I found a scrap of paper where you'd scrawled your name. I hate the world for its traces of you. Don't write me again.
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