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Lover Number 32, or was it 38
You were a poem with bad grammar.
I revised you in my mind
until your hands almost made sense.
You touched me like punctuation—
brief, deliberate,
never intending to be part of the plot.
And I let you,
because absence feels cleaner than false presence.
Another name in the drawer.
Another night I slept skinless.
The body is so forgiving
when you lie to it beautifully.
Copyright ©
Kell Futoll
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