Darling
The days fall out of your pockets one after the other.
Soon you'll need a new jacket with tougher leather
and seams no one has felt. Soon you'll bring
the old books into your bed and sleep easy
and alone. It must be December again.
This must be the part of the story where you
refuse to say how the bodies you've walked toward
continue walking in you. With heavy black boots
in a calm procession of darling and honey—
they walk up and down the narrow streets of your heart.
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