HOLY WHATEVERS

Chipped coffee mugs half-filled with cheap liquor,
makeshift blanket forts, a locked door. Lipstick
rubs off when you scrub your lips in the shower
but guilt does not; it sits like a sore and festers.
You start to believe in the permanence of these
holy whatevers: paresthetic leg under the weight
of you, static electricity, the pins and needles
of knowing someone almost fully. I say almost
because we never really do. No matter how
easy it becomes to sacrifice sanity, how natural
it becomes to wear each other’s smiles like
sweatshirts in a too-hot September, there is more
to a person than who they were when they left.
I thought he was composed of magic, under his
skin a gleam of nirvana; if you asked me I could
have sworn he was a god in another hourglass.
Those sacred trivialities: strands of my hair
on your perfumed pillowcase, arguments about
the universe under halcyon skies, a litany
of touching and colliding. The whole world
would call us blasphemy, would deem us sinful.
But I kept my toothbrush in your medicine
cabinet. I kicked your leg in my nightmares.
When you pick your lip, does it still bleed?

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