Pigeons point north

We are called today in hearts. To walk against the torrid rain. If I knew where you lived I would rock, holding yours cresting over it all. We are blood diamonds and mine is pointed north and out of breath. On a cold, wet stoop I watch a child covered in a yellow blanket, a man spits within earshot. I wish I could wrap you in salve, sugar, light warmed by rubbing palms. Write my ass off today, for you. That is the calling. It is all I know. Except that we are not broken. We are bodies interrupted from dreams. We gather thread, the net – I am blue, you are red, they are orange and green and palimpsest. All the colors existing in light.

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