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Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)

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You're still here. [Mar. 6th, 2015|01:38 am]
Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)
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I can't believe you're still lying here.
I'd have bet money you'd be gone by now.
I run my hand along your shoulder
to your neck
and pull you a little closer
and kiss the back of your head
and I still don't like you.
I run the same hand down your side
and along the front of your bare leg
too close to your naughty bits
to categorically deny any sort of desire,
but I still don't like you.
I kind of hope you're asleep so
I can just forget I ever did this,
but I know you're not and
I know you don't like me, either.
How do two strangers
who live a little south of
indifference toward each other
accidentally wake up
in each other's arms and not
rush off in a flurry of excuses,
polite or otherwise.  Or in total silence
vowing solely by wordless circumstance
to never breath a word of this to anyone—
including God and each other.
I guess it's just not that big a deal.
Probably because I never liked you.
And still don't.  Outside of death
or dismemberment or great bodily harm
we couldn't do a lot to each other
we haven't already done.
I know you as well
as I've ever known anyone.
Still I don't like you.  I never did.
But now I belong to you
and you to me.
I've had guitars like that
and computers like that.
And now I have a "lover" like that.
And I still don't like you.
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