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how funny it is that the link has died
and now you sketch charcoal blackberries
between blushing pink hands
when ours are pale and littered with lines of brown.

I grab the bowl between us,
but the blackberries seem to crouch beneath each other,
no longer garnished with Costco infecticide,
these weren’t hidden behind that jacket that your wet hair dyed
but instead they withered on the tenuous drive.
and these you sketch
between calloused fingers,
and in petite hands
when mine have always been apt to withstand,
elongated by the bow of my cello
and the knits of my abuela’s needle;
whose fingers are those?
that hold our withered blackberries,
and seem blotched onto your darkened canvas,
what happened to the notebooks you used to fill
do you remember the way your pencils flailed across notebooks, (5 x 5),
detailing the lines between our thighs
(when did you become infatuated with small pink hands that don’t resemble mine?)

the silence between us is comfortable now,
for you’re in your blackberries and I aside,
so I pushed a berry to the roof of my mouth—
my tongue holding it steady—
but the little bumps failed to burst and it continued to sit,
between my cheeks and behind my lips,

my insides match the fleshy pink of those fingertips
on your small canvas design,

(oh how funny is it that our link has died).

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