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It is impossible to be two places at once, he tells me.
I know this to be untrue. I do it all the time.
Hand on my waist; he has mistaken this for anchor.
Instead I am inside the rim of the light fixture, hiding
in the shadow between morning and night. In this light
he looks like you did when we were still new.
The night I found you left,
I ate 12 of your name. Skin and all.
The night I found you left, I ripped my mouth raw.
Brown bristles and black seeds lodged themselves between my teeth,
even fiber lasted longer than us.
I picked you out of fruit salad for months. My taste-buds have developed
more sensitive, I don’t think I could tolerate your acid, even if I wanted to.
BY OLIVIA SCARLET HOFFMAN
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