Don’t Worry

there is an aftermath,
like a crumble you dress greens with
like the greens you decorate eggs with,
an aftermath
to intimacy becoming soft, sweet
and hard, sweaty
I promise it will be okay.
I taste you and find your smell
in my dirty sheets,
but I finally did my laundry
and now I’m trying to
stop masturbating to the memory.
I have a couch now,
there’s no obligation.
We can go back to normal.
It’s my gift to you.

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