I keep the door closed
my hands crack against the fault line
it breaks like the spine of a book
folding back spilling letters out
the pages rain slowly slipping
under the rug
I wonder if the door could open
without me were I to wait
there isn't anything left inside
the sound of breath that are not mine
the growing distance between myself and the cold
a window pane peering behind its own eyes
sees nothing but the light
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