When I have no one’s chest to hide under,

and no other arm to rest my cheek upon,

no fingers to intertwine with my own,

and no one’s legs to pull down the weight of my knees,

no collar bone for me to brush my lonely lips across,

no one’s hair to conceal the smell of my repentance,

and no other voice to speak the syllables of my name,

no one’s eyes to watch over my breathe as I fall into a new dream,

and no other hips to press my palms into,

no one’s scars to trace or freckles to memorize,

no teeth to reprimand my childish lamentations,

and no shoulders that I can dig my chin into,

no other ears to tug on when I’m itching for affection,

no thighs that have the notion to wrap themselves around my waist,

no one’s tongue to break apart my quizzical demeanor,

and no hard body that I can throw my asperity up against

I feel ill.

Though certainly I’m not sick,

only heavy.


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