On memory (#23)

Oh sure, we knew each other’s names,
     thanks to the wonders of the internet and all that
but when she knocked on my hotel room door she looked like a stranger and
the first thing she did was grab my face and spit in it
and push me onto the mattress by my chin like my center of gravity was
            yards high
and I was a part of something much bigger.

I coulda’ been a perfect stranger. But I’m not.
She says, are you trash talking? Yep, I answer, and I’m about to haul it all out.


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