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You don’t write about cigarettes or the sky you saw driving home from work
You just can’t. You slip me a note about how the washing machine rattles and reminds me of a song I showed you
I bite the inside of my cheek til it bleeds and kiss the outside of yours til it does the same
Your stained-glass eyes tell me it’s all in my head and I bury my face in your neck
I came home and ate an orange without peeling it and stated at my reflection
Sweet and bitter simultaneously, I swallowed and sighed

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