The cold here gets under my clothes, I'm talking to Henry about summer under the lights when he says it in passing like it's of no apparent significance: "I won't be here then". In the dark and the music and the blur that surrounds us the distinction in his voice pierces through me like a January wind.
Later he undresses me on my bed in the dark (mother awake on the other side of the wall) but it feels as if he's carefully peeling my skin off and all that's left underneath is the cold and the winter.
He touches me with the lights turned off, I'm under the sheets and the letter I wrote but never sent is only inches away in the night stand drawer. My unspoken words like radio waves in the air, I have to bite my lip to keep from telling him and he notices. We stop breathing together, 5th Avenue an alarm outside my window. It's like he's already gone and I'm soundlessly whispering into thin air: "I love you".
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