My head rests on his shoulder
in the Sunday stillness
of his bedroom.
I stroke his broad chest
back and forth
like the tide of the river
he's always lived along
waded into
and may or may not
have returned from
depending on who's asked.
If my hand stops moving
he'll assume I don't care
so my fingertips skate
across skin and hair.
I make the mistake
of stopping
and he shifts
half-an-inch.
"Sorry," I say.
"For what?" he asks
without opening his eyes.
"I'm not him,"
but in saying so
he's more "him"
than he would have been
in silence.
He swims in my stomach
until we both nod off
temporarily distracted.
What wounds to bear.
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