a certain type of tongue flux,
we called it. a geriatric type wavering,
a holding on to a life long dead.
i tried to sip you one more time. loose lips
grip your hips and i laugh
and call you an endomorph-
your flesh curving out between my fingers. we are the types
that hold on only to
prove we like the other one less. to prove
that we aren't the only one
without a pulse.
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