i never see the other you as clearly,
so much of it is speculation.
and i suppose with the details
left up to my imagination
it's only natural that the other you
should hold me like that,
with such timid desperation,
as if i were the last solid thing
left on this molten rock.
the other you breathes softly
into my shirt, still shaking
from our imaginary ordeal,
losing his stage directions
in the weave of the fabric.
his words always slip away within moments,
but the weight stubbornly remains.
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