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by

kelsey aidan

slow and sudden, both, just add hot water,
how many times do you need to put the kettle on

to boil before you remember that you were making tea?

for me it's usually three; cups of coffee and bath water,
your fingers on the keyboard, my toes against your shin,

so many things gone cold before i get to them.
wrote you a note but already can't recall the words that
i used, only that honey hot feeling caught somewhere
in the spaces between your ribcage, your knuckles,
and the softness at the crease of your elbow-
daybreak on the backs of your eyelids, on gold
freckles, on green velvet, on the imprint of another
dream about the apocalypse. november as an act of
service: to you, and me, and future me, who still leaves
cups half-drunk and getting colder, and refuses to buy
a microwave, and.
who loves winter, now, a practice,
once, slow and then sudden, a first date that just didn't
end. when you've forgotten what you were waiting for,
or maybe it came and went and you were stuck instead
on a folded note in your backpack, you were hidden in
a to do list you no longer need, at some point you had
started walking without looking at your feet. mundane
and yet a miracle, still-like sunrise every morning, slow
and sudden, both