I pretend it never happened, so we might do it again, as
strangers, trading places with the rapper in the bar, so as to make it all seem
meaningless, just an act in the dark. to work out some small kink without the
consequence of love, to do it and to be done with it, letting it linger on the
tip, like the taste of wine after the glass is empty, to meet in a dark bar and
to play words at first, then action, the in and out of it, the grip of it
around our hips, strangers on a train or street or tavern, engaged but not
entwined, I pretend each night as sleep sweeps over me, we never did it, so we
could do it again, and again and again, as strangers, meaningless and yet
lingering, on the tip of our tongues
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