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It was in the way your chest
concaved, convexed with my pulse
and with our thrust; our bodies

beat rhythms into the walls
and floors; I was shaking
as your hand held up the arch

of my back. I looked up and wished
it wasn’t you so badly, I cried
and you wiped away what you saw

to be a bead of sweat from my cheek.
It was January and the heater
was broken.

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