You saved my poems?
Oh, I see. Well,
none of them were for you.
You see, when it comes right down
to the line, the quick of my nails,
I say I am brave, but I am not.

Now and then you might kiss me.
You might save my poems
and we might pray together
or at the same time in different rooms
doors closed
over each other.
We might have a long hesitant slide towards
the end of pretending I don't pray
the end of eyes focused on the ceiling above your head.

Inside my chest is a scoop of ice cream.
You will never lick it out.

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