And I knew I would carry you,
ignorant of myself, even to that

last cold house whose doors
are frozen shut, whose windows

do not see out. I should be
grateful, then, that the you

have forgotten me, a prisoner
to myself. How could you

understand you have betrayed me
where love is some dark animal

dying in its steel-toothed trap,
the irony of mourning for

that which kills you?

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