Heat-induced goosebumps, strands of hair shed on wispy bedsheets,

you and I loved with the fever of a thousand and one Julys. 

This one tastes different already, this watery, bloodless summer

void of eager touch, as bland as the dust under a desert moon.

These days, I have too much breath for my own liking

and these nights, I wish I had a body to inflate.

A shoulder to bite without breaking skin, threadlike veins

snaking across a forearm like English ivy, an asymmetrical birthmark

like a pile of spilled cinnamon above the navel.


How it tasted less like cinnamon and more like cardamom, 

which was living proof that the body is a false prophet, 

that it is capable of turning disciples into skeptics,

that all love is senseless.

It is July now

and I am remembering those afternoons and mornings,

cardamom seasoning the tongue, how I called it communion

and called you my God.

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