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Sixth Sense


I live and die

For that moment

Right after I realize

You are being sarcastic.


For me,

To tease is to trust

And to trust is to love.


Let your gentle insults

Tickle the small of my back,

That part of my body I can

Almost-yet-not-quite see.


I know you better than

The back of my hands,

Which obsessively

Scrape dirt, turmeric, and

Dying skin

From underneath nails

Welded to

Violin fingers,

Which,

If you were to hold,

Would turn clammy and warm

And tremble slightly.


Do you like me?


The hand I place on my

Lower back grows warm

And although I cannot see

The creeping flush

I know.

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