Next Morning

I include my name in the
“next morning text”
to save you the
awkwardness
of only remembering the curve of colored skirts
against your jeans and
exploratory hands that I should
slide off in an act of faithfulness
but
the wideness of your anxious hands
feel like I am owned,
tracing angles from shoulders to hips feels like
polishing your finest silver
and I am shining.

Your reflection is convex, inverted
blurred around the edges
wrapped in an unattained halo we are
rusting around each other –
me in your tarnished surfaces, back alley discoveries
you in all my fineries, dinner party quality –
and I am shining.

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