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Strange Love.

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He has a girlfriend. Her name is Sara. He found her on Craig’s List. For some reason she doesn’t care about the tubes or the beeping machine. She doesn’t care that his body is shriveled, disappearing, curled is a tiny shape, only a head now. Unable to move or speak. Unable to be alone, to survive. She takes his hand, the small, white, withered palm and brings it to her face for him to feel her skin, her lips, her cheek. She brings it to her breast for the twenty-five year old man to touch. His eyes only move. Strange love. She worries that she doesn’t love him enough because of it. She worries that she loves him more because of it. Neither is fair, both are pending. What happens when the rules of love are set between the parameters of the dying and the strange? She wonders at night alone. Why am I doing this to myself? The desire for normal remains as she brings his hand to her neck and closes her eyes under the violet light.





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