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It was in the way your chest
convexed, concaved with my rhythms and with our thrusts;
our bodies

pulsed waves into the floors
and walls; I was shaking
as your hand held up the bell-curve

of my bones. I looked up and prayed
it wasn’t you so badly, I weep
and you rubbed away what you saw

to be a drop of sweat from my cheek.
It was August and the A/C
was broken.

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