There's a bruise on my bottom lip
and I'm standing in the kitchen
wondering if I would make you coffee
but I'm barefoot.
Touching all the glass window panes,
I make believe
that you would stay with me
but it's Sunday morning.
The sky is crying over your smile and my smile
and your eyes
and my hands
but it's forecasted sunshine.
I've carved a hole in the Berlin Wall
that marks off the edge of the Earth.
You go first.
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