He wakes early, makes coffee while you stretch in a warm bed, a February morning rising over the lake outside your window, a dream of many voices on the tip of your tongue, something about leaps, something about departures and returns, you mull it over like a curious riddle, no longer like a fire to evade. On the train home, I stare at the gray February skies over the Hudson river, watch the northern tip of Manhattan cozy itself into view, like a morning hug from a lover you didn't know you'd missed in your sleep.
The time is coming to pack your bags again, it's all you do is pack your bags these days, it feels like nothing more than exfoliating your skin in the shower, like nothing more than coming out brand new, time and again, like winter has nothing on you because one day you put everything you owned into storage and shed your skin until only the very heart of you remained, and the softer your heart, the stronger it is, you've learned this from all the times you thought it was broken beyond repair, you've learned this before.
It breaks
and breaks
but is not broken.
There's a reason we whisper our lover's name into the night.
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