It’s the tiny things that tangle
in my tongue. Like when I’m rotten
and reeking of nightmare fuel and old aches
but we’re still in cadence. Or I am curled
over myself, leaking insecurity and salt,
but the rise and fall of our chests is still rhythmic.
My stomach still fills with damn gypsy moths at the sound
of feet on the staircase, but the truly amazing thing
is the way we pray through the mundane shit of everyday
life. The morning coffee, the evening news, the late night
terrors and sniffles. These are the places where we become,
not man and woman, but one fucking blinding beam of light.
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