we lie awake. we count
the glasses of water
that line the nightstand,
leave rings behind.
I was worried that
my lungs had fallen out.
I shook you. I opened
your mouth with my fingers.
you peered into my chest
with golden binoculars
and assured me that everything
was in tact. pulsing. breathing.
without you,
I have not a penny
under the sun
to leave anyone.
on the other side
of the window,
the neighbor boy runs
down the street, trailing
a jump rope behind him.
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