you are all doors

Wine-soaked lips
and peroxide heart strings.
Run your fingers down
a stranger’s spine
like a Grecian column.
Root out familiarity
like scraping clinging ivy
from the walls of your home.
You are all doors
and no chairs.
There is nothing solid
in your walk,
in your speech,
a bald-faced cliff edge
smoothed of all purchase
through careful sanding.
Tender moments take place
between the negative space
of two bodies arching
away from one another.
A glass left overflowing in the sink,
biting down on sour fruit,
March overstaying its welcome,
kissing you with the lights off.

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