by Sam Piccone
Your lip,
  the big bottom one,
  cradling a coffee cup all the way
  past the boldface letters,
has been leaking for a while.
Invisible blood down by the chin;
      looks like a run
               Aid stain.
       Wet, like the avocado metaphors
       across the fragments of stories.
Stories about the french fry crunch
of brittle fingers,
and how they have never touched anything strong,
like a house of cantaloupe brick.
Stories of fragile sweat,
the awkward groping for ripeness in tiny beds,
and how the more the teeth were bared,
the less the skin was bruised.

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