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Two Nights
I speak to you as the lamps go thin, as if wind had combed the room and left it shining. I speak to you with the grain of my breath, you who arrived like winter wheat in a cracked field, you who set your palms on my shaken ribs and said, in a voice of snow and ember, wait. The city would call you by a cold word—prostitute— but the word breaks like glass in your warm hands.

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https://jeffreyfreeman.me/blog/two-nights/

#Poetry & Literature #Freemo