silent house
trying to recapture the
wet mark/ the
red flowers/
the thread
that still loves,
wrapped around the bedside
in a complicated
gold
the metallic temperature of
street lamps
catching
breath
outside
against the black sky
the lit window
dragging its pavement square
like a clenched fist
for weeks,
for months.
a taste of blood / a piece of paper
continual gravel
results in dirty,
broken
feet.
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