I’m writing spaces, these blank places where we become better than our possibilities.
If I told you the truth, if I said all the words, you would end the conversation. It sounds like a thud, this faux love that we make, this fucking on IKEA beds.
The good parts are in your head. The words ruin what was possible, bog us down, and cement the atrocities.
When the bed creaks, we don’t hear it. When the pillows sigh, we have stopped listening. Ribs cage us. I don’t have the heart to tell you.
You can find my body and his in all the spaces, these places where everything was always greater than its assessed value. Even in the sorrow, even in the badness, the emptiness is what warms us.
We fell in love with our own rhythms: the beat of our heels; our thighs, the rub. I found him in the place I wanted him to be, the place where I was a thing worth finding. He was a magnet, a polar opposite. I rubbed him like lotion until he disappeared.
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