Sustenance

I woke up and thought my
face had hardened into his hip
bone. One body a simple
extension of the other. No
mess of arms and legs, no
taste of his body rolling off
my bottom lip while I drifted
off. I was really there to see if
his fingernails are as long as
mine. So he slept, and I crept
my hand along his forearm
until our wrists lined up. Just
what I thought: nails the same
length, mine with a little more
dirt underneath. While I
focused on our hands he woke
and only saw reaching. So I
grabbed the plastic bag of
samosas on the nightstand and
started thumbing handfuls into
my mouth, an excuse that
whispered I am trying to love
you less. He called me his
Prince of Burma as he split the
last pastry, feeding me the
smaller half. I remind him of
the time he asked me if that
was hunger or my body
turning in on itself, and I can’t
help but wonder the same for
him as he sinks his teeth into
my lip as if it were an onion,
calling that sustenance.

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