By Jim Burns
--
You are standing by the window.
A bank of clouds,
sprawling gray and purple bruises
on the sky,
accepts the sacrifice
of the setting sun.
Your back is to me,
your arms folded in front of you,
hugging yourself
like a child.
The window runs from floor to ceiling
and makes you look small.
It used to be so easy to say
I love you,
but now the words stick in my craw
and mix with the bitterness of bile.
A raindrop slides down the window,
or is it the reflection
of one of your tears?
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