In another life,
you hold my hair back as I spill out onto the bathroom floor,
but in this one, I gripped the toilet sink with both hands
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above the ground, with hands
and petals, bellies and stems,
she keeps an immortal beauty
from the obedience of the betrayal.
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Your exhale escapes into the icy air, and you follow it with, ‘I’m so happy it’s winter.’
The smell outside is like home, we agree, like a New England November.
Words like these are ones I have never heard from you.
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