our phones are on a beige table
next to the salt and pepper
shakers and you're shaking
just a little.
the fabric of your sleeve -
the only sweater you own -
is worn down to threads
from thinking.
somewhere in our stomachs
feelings are pressing hard
and we're throwing up words
long overdue.
with relieved smiles
we wipe away the pieces
of broken hearts and save them
for repair.
holding hands doesn't mean
much under a moonless sky
but we hold tight anyway -
like anchors.
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