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The Next One



Let the next one come into my heart
as cold as a star in the night sky,
which we understand is the hottest thing
but can only know as cold.
Let me plant in my body a moon garden,
white blossoms seeking light to display them
suddenly, quietly chastising the dark that hid them.
For cold is as close to heat as my heart can get
now, as warm as I will allow in my brittle vessel,
fired long ago by your ravenous flame,
then tossed into the melting ice of your absence.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.