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You want to touch her? Fine.
Put an arm
around her shoulders,
maybe? Be my guest.
Go ahead and hold her
as she cries her fake tears,
Moans her fake sobs,
and buries her face in your shirt.
I don't mind.
But when you reach to
wipe away a glistening droplet of salty water,
and discover her face is dry:
I'll be sitting
on the bottom stair,

July 1999