Small writers of dust.

fine, you'll have
his connoisseur
and united state of
affection.
and then
the tiny space
in your head that
recognizes my face
will be hollowed
like an empty grave.
i will take a solace
in knowing that
worms will eat the
respective space
inside my own skull
(still) enamored with your face
after I have passed.
Even if I should
live 50 more
years,
you will still be there.
occupying a few cells,
waiting to be devoured
by the best friends
i'll never meet.

they'll be worms.
kind consumers of the wasted.
small writers of dust.