September 15.

Do I taste things in a morning cup of coffee, dear, that you can only picture? Enunciation through porcelain, I am forgotten and beget until the dew is temple-pressed from visions in your sleep. Weekly redactions are time and money and you are the shorn hairs caught up in all my old sweaters. Comparisons will get us nowhere. God caught your curves and kept his eyelids in a box under my bed. I miss rings on my fingers and thinking we could not die; we destroy ourselves instead.

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