From the nook of the neck,
distance installed the width
of a Whirlpool or three.
Not even a sprint,
yet a need to collect breaths
like so many scattered toys—
the longest of pauses invites
a tear to crack the shoulder
like a cardamom pod
though one of us
is more potent
crushed.
~
Make-up sex distilled into break-up sex. I stroke the salt slopes
of his head. He comes up for air cuing me to say something selfish.
Clocks everywhere and still don't know when it's over.
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