Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien
april's only cruelty is that it seems to never
come - the pain of birth is only a moment and, if the
earth only offered her salt, our tongues would be swollen, the
soles of our feet would be soft and our eyes would be dead.

we would remember the gentle taste of bread on our tongues
and if we had the chance we would swallow it again
(even if the edges had turned green) to let our tastebuds,
now scalded by the sun, feel a firefly's glow once again.

there is a difference between heat and warmth that you can
feel in the air, and you only have two weeks to truly
feel warmth: one when the snow melts underneath thick grey clouds

and one when the puddles dry up beneath skies so blue like
blood on its way back to your lungs and out of oxygen
as you exhale and wonder why it still gets dark so early.

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