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Photo by Gail Harvey, no reproduction without permission
The Days I know the nights are the hardest.
I think I admire you more for surviving the merest night:
my whole life revolves around a hand on a hip, a call from a throat that lives on to my body and my daily comfort.
To find it missing would gut me.
Oh, Brother.
The slipping down moon of closing time,
and she's not there. Your arms and brains re
re re a word does not exist---
this is unfairness of cruelest emptying in action.
But she is there: the room is full, and fuller.
You chose each other, hard.
When it rains we worry about you
When a song hurts you we
cannot do anything. About the checking of the mail, the
cooking of lonesome breakfast. We can only sweep you in, imagine the pain.
Fifteen what to dos in a day. Your heart is broken, so of course it will dream in fragments.
Toast burning can be the end of the world on the wrong day.
It's just as far away from the dream
as the dream could ever be.
Here in my office away, I read to you: Marquez, Neruda, and sometimes late at night, I cook so you will feel inclined to eat. Be well: this advice travels through the worst pain anyone ever knew.
Listening to: Mae Moore
Reading: The New York Times
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