And once again, I drag old socks into the conversation.
Like seeing underwater, like not breathing, like the reason to move has something to do with temperature.
I have a drawer I’ll never open again.
He wants to know why red, so we compare it to ketchup and agree.
Some drawers take up the smallest space in every shadow.
Simple rings we toss from nail to nail at opposite ends of a bed.
At the corner of two streets, my drawer is outliving me.
Tiny and fragile are the marks, the score we've been keeping.
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