He and I share everything
from glass jars filled with hopes
written on torn paper edges
to the last slice of pizza
on rainy Friday nights.
We even share our skins
as we press our hands, our
hips and shoulders closer,
ever closer together
until we forget where one body
ends, and the other begins.
He and I speak a language
of poetry and pillow talk,
intertwining metaphors with
body parts. Our elbows,
the folds of our eyelids,
the curves of our backs
are etched with the epics
we whisper to each other.
I wear his smile like a sweater
while he puts on my knit brow,
stitched together by speech patterns.
He borrows my idioms and I
borrow the warmth of his arms;
we finish each others’ sentences but
unravel when our fingertips touch.
And I have to wonder –-
if my heart was carved out
would his name be written on it?
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