on intimacy

not of the bodily variety– our little deaths, lust so potent
it glows from under skin and flickers– but the intimacy
of ease. of sharing combs and toothbrushes, however
accidental, assimilating to the foul odors and mediocre
sex and intoxicated vomit stains on bedsheets, intimacy.
to come undone in the presence of another, unwinding
the particulars of our histories and stripping them naked,
letting the wind erode what is dead. to love is to know.
to know is to open a door and let fate decide what stays.

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