It’s the thickness of a palm around mine that I sometimes think about.

How while crossing roads, width and length become one in the unmeasured grab of palm on waist.

The expanse of emptiness on the other side of bed because you two are rolled into one on this side.

How while sipping rum and iced tea, you want to be that one single bead of water that rolls off their temple and slides down their back and vanishes into a line you won’t touch in public.

How when you are curled up in a chair, your chair, you read a line, read it again and blush in its warmth and the envy it spits. You feel it in your belly button before you feel it in your chest. A sort of echo that proves that your time with the book is spent well and the big black book that sits next to it bears testimony to all those lines that drove you back and forth in madness, and in smiles so calm, you wonder why you ever think of hate and anger.

How you forget everything when you read, and when you sleep next to yourself with nothing but aches you have grown to nourish, and a gnawing weakness that you hope will last the morning after, you will keep it within you until it all comes out in vomit like this.


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