Photo by Damian McCoig on Unsplash

Poetry

I rub the piece of snow with
My strong thumb and weak index,
Discriminately, like
It was a grain of sand,
Until I realized my fingers glow
With blood, wanting to come out and
Play, mistaken themselves as sunburned.
Patches of dry skin, rosy pastel of cheeks.
A snowflake grid, footprints of snow
Everywhere—the terrain is Robert Frost,
Instead…

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Photo by Cathal Mac an Bheatha on Unsplash

Poetry

When I put my head on your chest,
I could hear your heart beat romantically
Strong, but then when it skips, I could
Hear sadness, knowing that this would
Be the last time that we’d be this close
Again,

I could hear you gulp, swallowing
Your choking yourself, like you ate
A…

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