Somewhere, a man is
undressing in front of a mirror - his
butter skin, carved with wrinkles,
blood, green and swelling inside
wormy veins. His cold lips, deflating
as their stale breath drains out from
his eyes, and I've been sitting in my
study for hours, not writing, just staring.
First at the air, then the dust, then at my
drinking glass, which is empty but for
a few kindred ice cubes at the bottom,
silently growing into water.
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