Ten minutes after he leaves
I lick salt from my fingers
and my thumbnail burns,
so sore but less than before.
And I am weak so weak
when his mouth shapes my name.
Future unknown
cuts to the bones,
but here and now he encompasses
the very intake of breath;
before we admit how we fell.
Fractured but mending.
Possibly ending
but improbably
pretending.
As well.

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