I’ve looked
for the prompt, I’ve waited with the best of them, for the waiter. For the
menu. For the last time at the very least.
I don’t have
your brow. I don’t even have that much sweat. I don’t bray. And I had very
little to say in January. For the last time.
I’ve rubbed
until fleshy flexes and tenses and changes against my own touching. At the very
least.
I wait for
my ankles not to be cold, but to still be uncovered. This is not a revelation.
It’s not even pretty.
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