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where I leave (know) you

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I may
not have
any olive
branches
left
after
right tree
wrong
forest.
My crumbling
bark
provided
too little fuel
for fires,
yet your
frostbitten
fingers
ached.
I accept that. 
This place
has a way
of sometimes
making us
want to chew
a finger
off clean.
Our moderator
would jest,
“the suffering, 
oh, the suffering,”
before saying
“you’re 
just going
to keep
running into
yourself.”
They want us
to somehow
solve every
problem
single-handedly.
We can’t. 
Winter,
that place
your plight
feels
so much
larger
than love.
Like needing
to be a good
woman
or man.
But, my god,
the way 
your lips felt
that July.
I won’t 
forget that.
This poem
is too long,
yet birds
form 
choirs
in your draft. 
We only
have
two hands
and still
there
was
music. 

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