EACH OF THEM A MEMORY

Kisses at midnight
taste like the future,
so I count your freckles
as slow as I can—
our bodies become
only shadows
circling white walls,
their minor refusals
to ever fully untangle.
Our memories form
like a frosted glass,
our collar bones,
inviting more—
our flesh, whispers
in bites—
time
is such a lonely lock—
our elaborate fingers
are perfectly shaped
silver keys.

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