Maybe she's getting
her back blown out
by a guy with more length
and less girth.
Maybe it's the reaction
that her skin has to mine
when heightened immunity
meets stubborn cologne.
Maybe it's how my eyes close
while hers look up from my shoulder
like lashes can lock doors
for the night.
Maybe it's the way
that I inhale so deeply
when close together
as though I'll never
experience those pheromones
again.
Maybe she's worried
that it's merely the idea of her
but she's altered the thoughts
of a mind hard to sway.
Maybe we're all warned
not to pet burning dogs
and the best of us do
regardless
since the Doomsday Glacier's fake
ain't nothing that a bottle won't drown
and how it all ends
is what matters
right?
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