By C.L. Liedekev
I think it’s November And it’s not ok to die I see that first lick of frost and expect the nor’easter pouring over the front of the building - a child lost in its scream. I wake to the hover of my breath like long sections of worms slowly returning to the tangle of dirt. Gone, but their strangle stays, frozen as a bullet hole, as dead rope. But the window is different this year, the elm leaves are different, their colors more orange, more red straying against the blemish of car-dirt snow. Beauty once spoiled, beauty once ignored. These memories melt through my hands. I can’t wipe away the stain.
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