I
toss and turn in the most comfortable bed I have ever slept in. I shiver beneath the large, loose t-shirt I’m
wearing, that I have taken from a drawer of someone else’s clothes. Arms reach for me and wrap around my waist,
pulling me against skin that is much warmer than my own. And in the morning I awake, as I have
awakened for so many for so many months, in a bed that is not mine. In a love that I call mine.
I
tiptoe, barefoot, on cold tile floor, wearing but nothing a man’s t-shirt that
just reaches down to the middle of my bare thighs. I pull off the t-shirt and
step into a shower that is not mine. I cry tears that are all mine.
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