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Changin the subject


But what do our skins say

as we lay on the bed again?

They thrive, tremble

fingers dance cold tango

to change the subject

I ask him for a spare one

instead I get parsley.

I steal a bit of his cologne

we exhale, inhale

him, looking at the buildings

I translate what skin wants

tell him I like them

I think they’re pretty

I stare at them sometimes

he moves away from the window

and I caress my hair

wonder what’s he doing behind me

I smell his skin on mine

and feel cheated,

because I thought it was his

and not some cologne.

I turn around and say,

you can touch me if you want.

A vase of parsley

on the kitchen table.

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