In the morning
I wish that I were anywhere but here,
lying on my bed
beside her: my exquisite enemy.
For now, I'm content
to harmonize my sighs
with the peal of ice
against the empty glass.
But the sun warns me
that dawn is crouching outside my window
like a killer;
I wait for the death blow –
the spill of bright blood across
a landscape of winter indifference –
and I measure
another measure of insentience
and dare myself
to lift the pen,
pierce her belly
and let twilight spill out again.
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