First snow of the season, you are breaking under the weight of transience: such reinvention we have delved into.
The city is white & has made a captive audience of us. Breakfast & your body being the first & last thing touched, & revisited, & you could not assemble anything permanent for me outside of the hypothetical—the quantitative.
Past exercises in loss mean I ask no one to hold this heart, I cannot love what loves me back means I cannot love you back means forgive me, my desperate remainders.
Means winter quiets all loneliness.
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