It was the year we lost all our right gloves, so our right hands were chapped and cold. We didn't want to lose our left gloves too, so we wore them all the time, even in our dreams.
At night, our gloves are too big, flapping in the wet breeze. They become damp, covered with frost. We slip them off and suck on them, trying to warm them up.
I tell you not to swallow yours, so you do, like a lizard swallowing a fish. Everyone likes your style. Soon glove-swallowing is a dream epidemic; we wake up with green scales on our wrists, our tongues unscrolling to snooze the alarms. The left gloves are filthy, tattered. The trees have all fallen and become industrial bricks.
Under the table, a lake is drowning our gloves. Drowning them, then tacking them up to dry, plum lipstick stains on all the thumbs.
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