I meant to tell you
to take your shoes with you
when you left, but somehow
the thought escaped me. Others
leave pantyhose, chipped nail polish,
helixes of saliva stained red.
By night, the neighbors
sing hymns of praise,
a faint glow barely detectable
through the windows across the street.
By the last light of the moon,
we draw escape routes in the crevasses
between each other's
shoulder blades, knowing
that by the morning, they'll be gone,
just like the shadow
on the wooden floorboards,
the arm around the waist,
and the torn shoelace, a mere excuse
to keep dawn separate from dream.
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