bedfellows magazine
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Break Fast
There is no mistake 
in continuing to love, yet
we allow it to turn scarlet,
secret, hidden behind hands 
or poems. What happens 
when failure sticks around
but doesn’t smell
like the half-chewed world?
Not much. It is not 

unlike September, summer 
in the compost. Like discarding
the sun, free time, the assurance
of light. We call lost love 
failure, September, days 
that grow a little darker 
until they don’t anymore. 

It’s a little milder, yet. 
Not pen-mark red, but a bruise
that formed around the sky
because we gripped it
when we meant to 
tear our breast, break our bodies,
fast for hundreds 
of minutes, until something dulled. 

That’s a season, isn’t it, best
and worst, and before and after
are always there. Summer stained
on the lips of Fall. Fall in the belly
of Winter. Winter in a loveless
marriage until Spring. Spring 
too frivolous until Summer. 

I continue to                                 everyone 
I’ve ever             . 
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