Old habits die hard.


You are a bass drum thundering in my
chest and it makes me want to lick your
empty coffee cup after you leave in the morning.
I want to hover under neon Bulgarian techno beats,
listen to you tell me that you missed how I
smell like, insist that my German has gotten
far worse than your English, get to miss you from
only Attorney Street to Fire Island.
I knew the moment I saw you that you would
remember for me that I make words, you play
piano, and I knew you would remember sarcasm —
old habits die hard.
There are ten people in the universe;
you and me are two of them.


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