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by Lindsey Webb

Our neighbor wanders through her house turning lamps on and off.

You and I, invalids, we taste like cold blankets. When we kiss in the morning it is like pulling them back to reveal a dark landscape.

I break with the window runner when you escape near midnight. Here you are in the yard sucking tea leaves, forgetful: your t-shirt blowing out from you like a great yawn. We will speak of it when you’re well.

When I’m well I will turn all our lamps on at once. The sound of a car door slamming, footsteps on the walk… the doorbell one penny in the final day’s cup…