24th July, 2015 Writers
Blank canvas. Nothing smells new but you. I want you. Limbs and lips and soul. 
Should we have to run? Should we pretend it gets harder to breathe when we are on the phone? You hold my hand like it means nothing, like this isn't the part where I become a puddle, a tsunami, a dream. I wonder if you wonder what my lips taste like, if you guess the color of my lower back. I count numbers when I'm with you, just to steady my knees. 

Abuja, Nigeria
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