it hurt
but not as much
as memory;
not as much as looking back.
death reversed,
they called it.

and not as much as hearing it
on the bridge.
        I told you so
not as much as living long
enough to see you go and
slip and live frozen
underneath the giant
white sheaths of ice
where I leave you to unravel
in a dream.
where I leave

for the last time.

a spider said to
write it
that was rule number two.
you can call it the
act of taming things.
they’ll think it’s about you.
get them to read it out loud
and curse themselves.

when I danced with her night
that night,
she whispered,
       say my name
    and you are mine
I woke up in silk
and horns and you were
flying: a bright, blue butterfly
right into my arms,
my web of lines.

“switched places”


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