He turned up in your brother’s loungeroom, or
so the story goes. Did you ever wonder what
fateful breeze or cheerful tide
brought him there? I don’t think you did; that’s
the oddest thing of all, it didn’t even
cross your mind to wonder

You liked him and he liked you back
just fine, and you exchanged feelings like
old air, like
fingerprints on sale items or
smiles on passing children

You kept liking him and he kept liking you until
you loved him, and you exchanged other things:
complex sentences and bodily fluids and
little bursts of rage and
three hundred thousandths of your life, and it
surprised no one when he loved you too

And kept right on loving you, through
summers charred with old flames and winters when you
stole the blankets and long autumns when you crumbled
into pieces

You loved him through sweaty football socks and
stained Calvin Kleins and into Italian cotton when he
stood up in public and declared he would love you
always, and you pushed white lace off your face and
swore you’d do the same

And then you did. Even when his love for you grew
too big to contain, and tore you open so that
you would never again be just one, but
two (three, four?) you just
went on loving

And now he fetches dessert while your daughter
falls asleep with your nipple in her mouth and he
still loves you and shows no signs of
stopping, and you still love him and still
you do not seem even


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