Needs

You came far from the Arctic,
pale lips shivering,
whispering with lumps in your throat,
ice gripping your lashes.

He came far from the slums,
his pants loose, his shirt matted,
shoulders slumped,
eyes meeting mine,
but staring at the distant mountains.

You got a matchbox.
He got a sack of straw.

I sold my flesh for that.

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