Pocket Knife

The blizzard arrived with socks on
while we held soup in our laps
and the moment it did
it spilled
we spilled
a quiet agreement
Is there a way to save that part?
To cut away the footnote
stone-beaten blade
glued to its handle in a basement
where a city whirs by, unaware?
The morning we pushed through it
my boots filled with snow
I had never been so new
so numb
so cold
I didn’t question the misery
spiked and dripping
the wind swallowed your voice
the sky, your hair
I assumed everything real
should sting like that.

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