Twelfth.

When I wake up in the middle of the night thinking of you,
I freeze. All of me freezes inside.

I was a breeze. In a terrible storm brewing in your heart.
I wonder how much it has taken away and apart.
And how much have I.
I foolishly think to myself that there is something
greater than us at play here,
something that none of us can too well comprehend.
There isn’t.
I have knocked at the door of your eardrums
to seek shelter from the icy winds of forlornity.
If you ever opened the doors, you would perhaps
see my teeth still clattering.
But what I’m afraid of is the hurricane inside
of shattered mirrors and torn out pages
and flying pieces of memorabilia.
But I wake up in the middle of the night
thinking of  this.
And I freeze. All of this freezes for an instant.
And I can’t go back to sleep.
Dreading the gunfire.

I’m a breeze. I’m a terrible storm.
I’m laughter. I’m the gunshot.

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