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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