My tooth aches at the surgical cold of our water,
nerves flayed and skewered, joints thrust in awkward poses.
I drop the glass and shards bolt in thousands
of pieces like naughty mice.
Why is the water always so chilled
in our refrigerator, crystals floating
in reach of the surface?
I long for you,
in spite
of your
obsession with
the non-hot.
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