Hunger
It was there, in places where we brushed against the shore. Fingertips,
for example, and bellies. This back when we were living
in strangers' houses, in an alien light, stolen from beneath windows.
We were young and both equally pale, our feet frozen blue.
The low tide meant no more than warmth and we absorbed the damp
with parted lips, raised ever so slightly. Where everything was clear.
And nothing was ever too much. We ate one another, and hunger,
that cold touch, tied knots within, then rose towards our mouths.
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