i like to think that bones are gifts
between days fresh
and the bite of noon.

i have hands that tend to curl like
your hair, that curl your hair,
i run them as guides in the
otherwise tangled mess.

i struggle to think that claws can hold you
any better than i ever did, if
the sharp, black pronouncements could
feel softer on your chest;

although, i see, you are better,
better-seen, and better-felt,
and there is that little comfort
and envy,
if nothing else.

— A. P.


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