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by Dez Levier

in november, the cold bites my wrists, a lover’s nip pressed into skin.

something violent blooms violet on me like frostbite, staining my skin with something soft and aching. 

i want to tell you about the sun’s warmth poured down from the sky, & the doves in my throat, & the dead trees still casting shadows, & the world being reborn under my feet. the blue of the sky kissing away an obsidian wash in the morning. the three a.m. quiet when the city sleeps. i want to touch the spring blossoms & the wind-brushed fallen petals with a lover’s hand. i want to sing about the river steaming, heated under ice, & how i’m on the river bank to learn love again. everything here, everything i’ve ever touched, inked into letters.

i write the word love over & over like it’ll heal the hole left in me when it hasn’t even stitched the wind-cuts. i write & serenade the stars like i have something to give, like i have something it wants. i’ve written a hundred love letters to the world, a hundred feelings i can’t put a name to, & they’re all in shoeboxes under my bed, getting older with me. (they’re just as far away from you, too.)

in the winter, there’s words on parchment; personal testaments for everything i haven’t learned to love yet but will. but let’s not wait until the spring, let’s unlearn everything and pull it back together during the cold months. it’ll be worth it, i promise. in the winter, i promise, i promise i will learn to love.

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