Is that you?  I think it is.  Your lips, bottom bigger than the top, both swollen pulp I used to suck or paint with my tongue?  Your heart-shaped jaw I used to stroke?  Your ears I stuffed with homemade promises?

There was the time I confessed.  I said I’d never forget.  I found a constellation on your skin, a series of freckles and faint moles, tiny footprints, connect-the-dots, a code I cracked using fresh blood.

We were heroic–the way we could hold our breath, bend our licorice bodies, stare down words.

If that’s not you, then you have a doppelgänger, a twin you’d failed to mention.  This one has hair beyond the blades, thick as shag.  She’s lifting her face to the sun similar to how you would push away from your pillow, morning breath not a matter, grinning, saying, “Hello, Love.”

Of course it’s you.  And him.  And me–spying on the pair of you, the couple, husband and wife, so much more compatible in the flesh than photographs would lead one to believe.

Is it creepy that I’ve come all this way to watch?  It must be.  I’ve been a bit out of orbit since your final triage.

I see him untie the rental boat, pulling the buoys on board.  His chest is hairless which explains your fixation with my opposite one.  The sun’s ripe.  You sip a pink drink.  Your bikini is sky-white and slight.

I suppose if that is you—and now the smug smirk confirms so—I would do the right thing and shout for you (both of you) to jump, get off the boat, swim to shore fast.  But on the other hand, since it is you, then the gravity of justice must right itself, meaning—among other things—that you deserve the package I’ve planted beneath your bed, the big bang coming any second.

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