but i forget myself
even as the rain fills the streets.
as the bitter wine swallows me alone.
i wash away.
and the shadowed droplets
streak the windows
falling against the highest iron wall.
my slight shoulder in passing —
screech the wet tracks of a distant train.
moan the bells of a church
stained of bent glass.
i curl my body into sleep
feather my limbs into
the stitch of skin
you walked
away from.
the abstract of what
i may still
call mine.

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