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my too-worn jeans heaped lovingly on the ground,
the pockets turned inside out, emptied of the
change that I gave to the barista;

the coffee that I spilled when you bumped
into me on the bus today (a million people
in this city, and we’re standing in
the aisle, looking at me and looking
at you);

my messy sheets and your messy hair,
a click-clack in my mind like
typewriters and new high heels,
but I have to turn over and close my eyes
and you know I don’t want you to
say goodbye when you leave,
I don’t even want to know your name.



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