she says shes kind of tired,
I hand her a light; I hate the thing.
but this lady, she's a crier
whatever to quiet her laments
lilly hands soften the creases
as the finger pushes needle through
carefully connecting pieces--
all that's left to do
dew drops, tearing on the window pane
the hush of condensation
slowly, bring it back again
and slowly, bring it
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