Cold Spell

January’s raindrops were the exterior of starships,
spaced out like an empty glass on a dusty table.
They fell on my skin, reminding how
things are cold due to emptiness, how
we’re like the walls on buildings that cannot
escape into our drier interiors. If spires become
indistinct like clouds it is because they are soaked
in their tears; We built them taller since melancholy
is myopic. Google advices an umbrella and we
shared it together, our voices disembodied.

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