My knees wear the dirt like a second skin,
bruised to the bone, bright as bitten apples.
You press your thumb to my wrist,
her laughter, once light, now flickers in the air—
a kiln and the clay, forever bound.
But the kiln runs cold, the clay cracks wide,
her voice, once honey-thick, now thins to thread.
She curls inward, brittle as...
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