Morning Lies

The morning, not yet done-
Yet you skate away on the
Frozen breath that blows out
Between chipmunk cheeks.
I warm my hands on your lies,
While they freeze
My hindmost parts.

More likely, you left in the dark
With a mouth still quick
And hungry and weasel-thin
You slide into the night like
You slide into me, the same darkness
Where the ice-wind wakes your skin and
Makes you run.

by Charlotte Ballard

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