The next time that I see you I will make certain
you're asleep. Until then, there are some things
I must learn. The silence of the deepening dusk,
for one, and the stealth a creeping kitten thinks
she has, but does not. Anatomy, amateur surgery,
lightning speed. I want to learn precision
from those men who paint the names on the grains
of rice at the county fair before placing it
in the tiny jar so that when I come to you
I will know exactly how to sneak up without
you waking, how to delicately carve open
the left side of your chest, and mine, how
to swap our hearts and before I close the cavity
I will paint our names on the heart in your chest,
paint "I love you," paint "I miss you," paint
"Where have you been all my life, sister dear?"
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