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Moving On

I am well-versed in vacant conversations where people are too cowardly to admit that they could never love me. I don’t need to feel your cold disposition to know that it exists, and I can sense you are detached even when you are touching me.

He says I speak poetry. I read his body like words on a page—text coiled around the sinew of muscle quotations nestled in the space between his eyelashes. I found solace in the grammar of his collarbone.