New new new. 
New face. New nose. New lips. 
A different architecture. 
A different stare.
Longer. I’m the one to break it.

M: Your eyes are never-ending.
H: Never-ending what?
M: Never-ending stories.

Shifting between pain and ecstasy. 
I won’t ask him about the pain now.

His face emerging from the velvety midnight ocean. 
Slick skin. Fresh birth. Eyes on me.
Carrying me to another land.

M: How are we going so fast?
H: I don’t know how I’m doing it either.

We glide in the ocean between 
a distant new york skyline and a festival of love,
in some luminal space that has no ties
to anything I know, but feels like my first home.

Laying on the beach, we tilt our heads back. 
The world upside down becomes our own private showing. 
No — one — can — see — us. 
Like kids under a glass dinner table, 
we make art with our words. Intertwining 
brush strokes in the air.

He wraps me in the perfect boyfriend shirt,
high collar, long arms, thick weight
enveloping my shivering skin.

He keeps my little things in his pocket.

With his curly sandy hair nested in my lap, he falls asleep
as I watch the dying fire and rising sun.

No last names. No history.
Slowly our stories will be revealed
and new ones written.

Or perhaps, 
not.

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