sleeping with your exes

it happens the same way every time. you’ve never said the thing they say in movies, the “this won’t happen again.” instead you say, “this shouldn’t happen again”, “we shouldn’t do this again”. you know that you shouldn’t, you know that you will. it’s always stormy, or raining, or much too hot. it’s always nightfall or much past. your body’s always got that heavy feeling, the dragging feeling like it’s trying to go back in time. you’re listening to drake in your car, you’re listening to chet baker in your car, you’re listening to blonde in your car. why do you think people reread their favourite books over and over, why do you think people have favourite foods and favourite songs. something familiar: something you know, that knows you inside out, who would recognize you if you were walking down the street with your skin on inside out. when you were younger and wanted to be a writer you started to write a book that was a catalogue of aches, all different kinds. the ache of pangea, growing pains, loose teeth, airports, spare change. your ex-lovers are constellations in your phone, buzzing & sighing. your ex-lovers are a bittersweet fruit salad. your ex-lovers open their arms to you and you feel guilty and you feel irresistible. alight like the statue of liberty. it’s all choreography, it’s explored territory, it’s a long car ride home. it’s not love, but it’s like love. it’s not love, but it’s like a metaphor for love. it’s a pillow, a tooth, an ache that grows and grows and bursts, an overripe plum, it’s exertion, it’s salt. learning cello, your teacher telling you that if you practice the fingering or the shift or the vibrato one hundred times your body will know it, tuck it away in its muscle memory. this is your body’s bluebeard, the muscle memories you tried to lock away. sleeping with your ex is a growing pain, it’s a time machine. it’s listening to a long voicemail you’ll never get to the end of, on a bus somewhere in between dusk and night.

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