Opened now, because you loved each other, when everybody knew and expected you to check out this other woman who was willing to fetch soup, who by the afternoon, many other people used a couple of times because of all the sugar that looked as though it might lay dawn on the bed, waiting, with this anger you ask permission to enter first. And you, having just stopped by to see if she would consider being with you, you who confuses pleasure with pain, who has been through the kind of interaction any pattern on a shirt can determine with 15 minutes left to stand at the door. But your shirt somehow gets around the back of her house, forgiving of your miscalculation of exactly her, she who washes you, who always arrived, so scattered, so inconsistent, another half an hour on the clock, so ruined, any minute, and this is for the last time, so right, is you knuckling on your own back door with your heart.

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