grizzled and frozen, with a lighter
like a tumor in your palm, detached
and pulsing
pushing you, your nose dripping, soundless
back through the door
and, it is my goddamn birthday.
I sit you back down with something like a gun
to your head; five hours later
I'm across from my best friend
pleading for similarity
say, "This is it for me, no more of this nonsense."
at least it is inwards, even
in a phonetic stairwell pounded with the drizzle of rain
fire passed casually to and fro
friction only of metal on metal
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