The First Sign of Holes
Your jeans predict the future, I said. If you ever have holes in them
then there must be holes in everything. Your clothes foretell the
apocalypse, zombie or otherwise. Your knees predict the absence of
birds, the naked forest, the silence that comes before the silence. As
I said this, I was picking at your denim with my thumbnail. You slapped
my hand away with your hand.
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