I stood in this house, with these things, holding them to my chest like this, the wind was making scratches on the window, not like today, it's blue, clear, the clouds are cotton.
I stood in this doorway, in this large room, just like this, after the cold had got into my bones, the rust on the gate had been under my fingernails, holding these keys, these little rings, this envelope with a letter in it
I stood right here and wished the sun yould come up behind me, burn the cold and make it all easier, in this house I watch her sleep across the room, nightgown trainlng dust, bits of cracker, she holds the same things to her breast, scratches at the window, this is the same storm
When the sun rises she is not here to see me standing in the doorway
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