How many of these details are true?
At this point, I’m past dying to know.
The dream of a good story’s the glue
That sticks these snowflakes to my windows—
Wind, winter, and nothing much but truth.
Useless as moonlight over streets’ glow,
Useless as a rhyme schemed without you,
As meltwaters freezing our shadows,
Here’s the ice-water portrait I drew.
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