The curvature of his spine is ingrained
in the muscles of my hands. I can sense
when he is ill-at-ease, and if we are
alone, I will squeeze the back of his neck.
I apply the right amount of pressure.
Sometimes I wash his hair in the shower
and I will love him until I am dead.
And if there is a soul, and if I should
reincarnate, the person I become
will love a man she cannot remember.
Her mind will be etched with his silhouette
like a shadow, scorched
into a brick wall
by a bomb.
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