the length of the foot. the space from the foot of the bed to the switch. your disproportionate match to my lips. everything's predictable. measured. measurable. i log numbers and time tables and calories burned into columns with formulas and goal points until artificial meaning bleeds me like caught fish on newsprint. i know the alphabet. and that combinations of letters make words into guttural ticks out of mouths that make meaning into ears and heads and tongues. and that bodies sometimes soak sounds like scars. butterflied. unforgivable. i know that people always leave. and that love isn't about much more than stupid choices. and that lately i might just be too overwhelmed by the world to know what to do with you, either.


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