birthday card

Are you mine? Do we begin and end together?

                                         Do I even know what I belong to, what parts of me I own?

There is a dull gold lamp lit in the corner of the room,

                                  with a pale skirt of light that is barely trying

    to break through this powdery afternoon air

                                                                          when afternoon has curled inside itself and run away with the sun,

and we are left,

with knife-edge light, grey clouds turned into teeth and cold breath.

                                                                                              Cutting us.

And the birthday card is caught in that silver reflection

                                                                    flashing against sky with tarnished reds

and curdled exclaimation points.

And here I am,

                                   wondering why the light is stale,

                                                                                     and where you are tonight.


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