My eyes still work, even

glass-fogged by your coldness.

If you’re hanging up

just hang. Just chill, just freeze.

My threads drip from the damp

nessnessness of you,

but I can still clean up this mess,

I’m mopped and mopey, but whole.

You’re on the road. My road is

broader. We broads have a way

of cycling around potholes,

making the most of

wholly holy cyclical potshots.

And one night doesn’t make

one night more than

one blight or fight or slight.

Incommunicado is

plenty said. But

if you want to.



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