We ran until our legs gave out, drawing clouds of breath like children faking cigarettes. We talked until our lungs gave out, cheapening the taste with every noun that we chose to waste, when I should have kissed you right then. You placed your hand in my own, said, “This must be hell because it feels like home.” You won’t remember the weight; you made me fix a broken habit. Dress up all your wounds, wrapped in sheets like a tourniquet. I taste you like ash in my mouth. It’s the same way that teeth meet concrete.
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