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you asked me if you could use my nail clippers,
so I took you upstairs.

our bare feet gripped the crisp chill of the bathroom tiles,
and I wondered why I had no problem with the fact
that you were bent over my shining untarnished bathtub,
toenail clippings softly dropping into the pale rounded depths, echoing,
my eyes blinking with the sound of each cut.

we didn’t speak.
you were preoccupied with your inconsequential chore,
while I was marveling at your coolness, confidence,
your ability to perform a routine
one usually does not think to do
in another’s home.

the nail trimming lasted but two minutes at most,
yet I still think back to your ski slope nose and thin lashes,
both pointed downwards in absorption,
as they were the day I first saw you.
you weren’t afraid of anything then,
either.

and so it was in this moment that I realized
I will never care
about stepping on your nail fragments the next morning
or any morning
in the shower,
because they are yours,
and so they may as well
be mine.




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