The gratification of
erasing false starts
finds you just as unravelled as
any other pleasure
tingling fingers
itching, frozen, honey icicles
threatening to drip over
all of your opus, your corpus, like
naughty candle wax
with every heartbeat he didn't call
you grew a little older and one foot
inched carefully in front of the other
along the slick ice of despondency
what gets elided in the viscosity
is the rigmarole of feeling
dull feeling
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