The body knows
lonely from the inside,
bone deep:
ice-cold toes in the midst
of summer,
or that odd gnawing
hunger that comes on a few
hours after Thanksgiving
dinner. In the morning,
the body knows
it as a hollowness,
an echoing empty house
in which someone was
supposed to have been
living. On the outer rim
of sleep, the body knows
lonely so deep and all
consuming that, instead
of reeling away in fright,
the two embrace,
the feeling pulled up
and around like
a comforter
on a winter night.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
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