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It’s been almost a year

since you entered my life

causing chaos

and laughter and destruction


I realized

you are a relief

in a way inexplicable

My heart has eased

its aching

enough to be

to be confused by easy emotions

and images of closure

enough to be

glad that anger is

not the only thing

you were good for

He writes about me

because he knows I like it

or to get out of his own mind

though I can’t imagine mine is a relief


I’m redundant

I fret and marinate and I make

things dismal

things the heart-weary understand

but tire of

I tire of me



My writing is compulsive

not compelling but compelled by


I know it’s right

a version of what’s right


If I wished at all

I’d be content from here on

From now until then


It was cold out, and he came to cook for me. The warmth of the oven did not compare to the warmth in my feet and gut. We pretended to work together as an excuse to get closer, him letting me help, me wanting to impress him. He told me cooking wasn’t hard, that all one had to do was follow the directions. I told him I was book smart but not cookbook smart. He laughed. We watched a show with sexual innuendos and commercials for natural male enhancement and laughed. In the meantime, we sat closer together until my right shoulder, arm, and leg was definitively against his left shoulder, arm, and leg. And at the end, a touch. Warmth from his fingertips to my leg and then tingles all over when his hand shifted. Awkward pauses at the door, what to do. Finally, a hug and a light brushing of the lips. A simple goodbye, though hopefully not for long.

SOB with me

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