She is new.

You skin always holds a soft dew, lover, floating next to red dwarf stars, with the lights turned off to save your eyes. I still feel your cheek against the bridge of my nose as I burrow, underground catacombs turn into coffins turned into light fragment fictional. I can’t breathe under your water/works like a guillotine, slice through my voicebox, you’re still alive for five seconds afterward. Stop calling my name. I still believe that funny and sad aren’t star-crossed lovers, they are brothers. I ask other girls if they are you when I know they are asleep, never get the wrong answer that way. It reminds me of Ohio skylines, lover, and Texas sunsets, and Missouri planes, when your sweat soaks my bedsheets and my Chicago capillaries are intergalactic highways, we broke light and sound with our smiles in bed each morning. I am the sand between your toes, you are the sea salt in my lungs, I am the burn on your back, you are the sweet air of each summer. Keep calm in the storm on your way back to me.

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