both ends

 

You burned the last bit of wax and I keep getting old. 

Nothing else was this important. 

You are the sick sweet smell of things gone bad,

rotten meat,

potential soured. 

You are creaking over my head,

you’re about to come crashing in,

trembling water stain- muddy mold. 

We’ll just move in the middle of the night again. 

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