december
a shoulder
a wrist
an ankle
connecting parts
december tore me to pieces
worked me until my throat was dry
a glass of water
at 3:52 in the morning
i laugh
because you look so vulnerable
walking naked into the kitchen
only a few sips before sleep , clammy bodies pressed up against one another.
here where the draft blows in from my closet
where the window broke in august;
december tears in.
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