i think
that we pretend because we have to,
because
because
because the pills are on the counter,
right by our hands, which tremble and shake
like vibrato on a cello.
we say
that tomorrow will be colder;
winter will bleach and frost and tear and then
mend ,
again, our bones.
but our sweaters are too cold by themselves
to be left alone.
i believe in anything (and everything)
you throw at me. maybe we are paragraphs.
or periods or commas or endless circles.
and i think
that is okay with me.