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And you think you’re over him

and you know he’s like the hair mixed with clumped leftover conditioner in the drain catcher of the shower on a Monday night at 10:48 PM

the hair that’s yours but you still cringe at touching it

yet when you’re in the shower

you remember his chest tattoo

and the way his body felt

up close against yours

and you remember what it felt like

peeling your wet suits off in the morning

after chasing each other in the ocean

with them flopping in the bottom of the tub

and the way it feels to come up behind him while he cooks breakfast

and wrap your arms around his chest

and you could almost write him really

to come over

right then

and fall onto the white couch you made love on the night you decided being friends was a front

with brown sneakers still on

and take his long locks in your hand

that big oversized leather jacket hanging on a chair

his face nuzzled into your breast

and then we must muster the part of us that was left

after having to leave the US after 48 hours

by the same man

a man is too kind

same boy

who ran

instead of stayed

who wanted the sunshine and the salt of a kiss

but not the accountability of being the mountain for a woman who has no legs

who left

while I was in between 3 immigration lawyers

boxing my place up over FaceTime with friends

renting the bed we made love in and I sleep in

with no real infinite plan of when I can come back in

and then he’s back

as the hair in the drain

and I don’t miss him

(except when I miss him).

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