your height and breadth
make me feel delicate
you could crush my narrow bones when rolling over in your sleep
your scent has seeped into my skin,
but I can remember so little of those hours
smoking, pretending we are cool kids,
which season do you like best?
later you taught me
the language of sock puppets
and cartoon scientists.
your hand in my
hair as if you were clinging to your last hope on earth,
the dyed brown streaky red of it
Sticking out between your clenched fingers.
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