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Pine-cones: the most legit
form of romance.
Whether you found it
in the backyard of your childhood
home
or bought it cinnamon-scented
from a store.
And books
and thoughts of books.
Eyelid kisses
and awkward goodbye hugs.
“We good?”
and two arms around me
at some odd a.m. hour.
And when you finally fall
from the pedestal
I put you on,
what will I see?
Will I still believe
it’s romantic?
When you smack my ass,
trace my curves,
brush your cold feet against mine,
place a hand on my sleepy back
and tell me about the other girls,
thank me for waking you up
to take her to work?
Will I call it love?
Or abuse?
Please don’t fall,
that way I’ll never find out.

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