I keep thinking there's a radio nearby— in the room one over or on the street. I keep thinking it's the song you hummed a verse of when we studied together— a book report and the same four lines over. I don't remember the end— If the kids make it off the island or beyond the chorus And someone asked me once why I stopped wearing the sweater with the crossed-stitched daises and I must have forgotten it— wrinkled at the back the of the closet, daises withered and worn by a monster or the face of a corpse this field of flowers grows from before me There is wind in my ears and Auld lang syne over a kiss— and something as hot as fireworks brings the snow to a stop until all that is steady are the bubbles of champagne carrying this memory to the silver air And my mother is reading Arabian Nights— brushing the hair from my face and I'm asleep before you'll never know, dear, how much I love you and, really, I'll never know but for the kiss on my forehead And I'm not sure what you gave to me when it all ended—words to turn over in my sleep until they were inside out with the tag showing everything but the price of not swatting away the buzz.
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