end. The word has always been there

that the woman has grown nonchalant

at its recurrence, and now

she seals it by writing him a letter,

the way she did with past lovers:

At half past midnight, with the noise

of cats making love outside her window,

the moon beams slide through

the blinds like fingers sticking out

to snatch the paper under her palm

on the desk. At the last line

she stops, rises to twirl the reed

of the blinds to shut the wild purrs

echoing in her ears,

push away the faint figures of light

threatening to throw away this closure.

All is quiet and dark now as she scrawls,

Wishing for your happiness. She marvels at how

the last of these four words brings sadness

to herself when she gives it away to one

she cannot have; how the word masks her goodbye;

how it always ties the beginning to the

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Reading Nick

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