Winning, with a Losing Hand

We’re in the wrong town,

Piles of bodies plopped onto seats, a hand touching a hand,

Two elbows close together on one armrest.

 

I saw your shirt hanging in the bathroom, over a towel

and though worn down to tissue, it smelled clean—like nothing.

Where do you leave yourself?

 

Don’t refuse me, darling, though

I’ve challenged your very existence with my every move

Now, who’s moving? 

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