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Flying

Up with you at five a.m. Sheets

never made good walls. I'd watch

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you pull the Bic, down once, up

twice and tap the cracked ceramic.

Calloused fingers pulled the

Old Spice left to right, over the ears,

behind your neck, and landed on my

cheeks. Sandpaper palms wedged

beneath my jaw, and the sting of

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alcohol closed my eyes.

I wouldn't let you go until

you curled my hair like Superman's,

which matched my Underoos,

so I could fly from a chocolate-

brown couch onto the beanbags,

which were actually clouds and

no one knew my hidden identity.