Raymond Philip Asaph
Now that the marriage is over,
we deliver our interpretations
to the friends we've divided
like joint property, and cry
For ourselves, for our separate
separations, each time we speak.
Yes, it's love, but less each week,
as we hold our midnight phones,
and make mistakes at work.
We were each other's favorite jeans,
old comfort that no longer fits.
Our rings feel wrong,
we both need sleep, the dream
has eroded like soap. Why do we
keep beating each other
with tender voices
when deep in our bodies we know
we must each kill the other in ourselves?
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