i am writing apologies on napkins
and love letters on park benches.
(i am defacing public property
and all of the clean surfaces of my heart)
my fingers are cold (like ice, like yours,
like saturday nights) in my pockets
and my palms are itchy and empty
with sweat, or nostalgia.
and this is not a poem
and this is not a letter
and this is not a story
and this is not enough.
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