Now this landscape, this old layering technique. A mountain range of cut paper, rustling in my swift, sharp hands. An ounce is a measurement or a snow leopard, depending. Slinking in the redder weather, soft pelt withheld. Why lie, I adored you. See the way I hold my wrists. Rain falls in milligrams, where I tell you secrets I can’t tell myself. I get sick of just about everyone. My body wants for the first love, administered only in increments I am capable of, or I can conjure.