it's in the way you reach over, suddenly
propelled out of inertness by chords
all too familiar, and none you
want to hear
the way when i put certain songs on,
you change my entire lineup
and put your preferences on, instead
and look, i know it's not a social commentary
about my music tastes, or the
appropriateness of the sound
no, your problem comes with
long, curly brown hair
the kind that piles up in
the corners of showers
and sticks to you in
unexpected places, and
won't stay off your clothing
kind of like the way her memory
stays in the corners of your
mind and infects the
curves of my body
i remind you of her
but i'd rather leave you behind
than become her flesh-incarnate memory,
a replacement
to knock around your bed,
a shoulder to cry on
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