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PoetryRecovery

That hour before dawn:
soaking blue chill
consumed over sheets
freeze outstretched fingers
expose back's arch;

will I die with you inside me?
Breath to my neck
words in echo
mesmerize;
ceiling shadows.

Slow, slow; this hour
no more, an ache of speed;
it's too quiet to scream
this would break;
this would break -

I swear.

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