Mithridatism
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.
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