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It was a second floor walk-up,
and you complained of the bed.
But that's what drew me to the 
room with one window,
  as our breath
fogged the glass. 
I wrote your name,
and it dribbled toward the pane.
We hung by a slender thread
from which I dangled
above the bed.
And soon,
the thought of us,
was a mere finger on the glass.
We were so much dribble; 
  so little mass.