(The one that came with instructions, written in the first language of man.)

We could spit fears off our tongues
like filth
like flames
like fireworks above your paved over graves.

Smoke like, we could keep a log of undertaker's final words
and watch them (crystal, and emptiness) falling upwards into release
benumbed and forgotten.

We could choose petrified whirling, emit our own vapor trails.

Or

We could drape and hide the moment, perfumed and humid.

You could turn over, and in the small of your back
I'd count the footprints,
number them,
and whisper forgiveness to fill the cavities.

Let my arms hang the curtains.
Whimper, and calling:

Let me see your face.

 - http://plagues.tumblr.com/