On the fire escape of your rented room
we sat and felt the empty city
sweat and fret     we passed a cigarette
back and forth     as once we passed
words like these between us      without
hope of keeping
                              Now I write
without hope of answer
     to say
that what we gave each other nakedly
was too much and not enough
To say that since we last touched
I am not empty
     I hear you named
and my heart starts
     the pieces of your voice
you left
     are interleaved with mine

and to this quick spark in the emptiness
to say Yes
     I miss how love
may make us otherwise

-Craig Arnold, "Asunder"


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