always
somewhere else
until
it wasn't. the wolf came
on
padded paws, the echoed cry
no
longer lost in newspaper walls.
now
the ghost of a breath hangs
like
a false season among the winter
cold
sheets and the empty limbs
ready
for any warmth.
the
musk of a new moon's hunt
burns
colorless in the blood. unsheathed
canines
eloquently spell fever on barren flesh,
drawing
out the stagnant streams. hunger
grows
with consumption, gorging famine
will
not leave bones to flesh. Is it love
to
bleed so easily
.
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