Affirmation

Let us begin again. This time on a train. Where the tunnels
only highlight your flicked cheekbones. And maybe you are going
to a job you hate. And maybe you’re going home to a wife. And maybe
you’re going to visit an old friend or lover. And maybe you don’t
even look at me. But you leave your book, Marquez, and touch me
through the way the edge of the pages are rubbed upwards,
pushed down in the love of wearing out. There are words you circle,
words I can only assume catch you, that you repeat, mouthing them
in the shower, speaking them into your coffee, trying them out
in places they’d seem inappropriate: saying “vulgar” to the papaya
at the corner market, “metamorphosis” to your bank teller,
“empurpled” to your empty kitchen. And these are the reasons I love
you, and these are the words I try on now, and these are the words
I’d never even be able to speak if I saw you again.



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