Not even the ice
bitten
rain that drips
insistently
from a rose’s
thorn
can stop us
from talking.
But words are a crime
in weather like this,
stealing warmth
from where it is needed
around alveoli,
blood, and nail
beds.
Your love
inflected,
tells me I am more, made
of opiates,
or a paper cut
of disgust.
Blanket
teacher
over a wet wounded fire,
be gone:
The night born
and shards of yellow honey
made
me forget
and drool again.
Now I know what others know.
Now I can truly feel.
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