like curvature of collarbone like mom's indented thumbnail like sunken couch cushion, there is serration here. there, the ridge there, the tooth erupting, pushed, hanging on by gum, creaking in the door hinge pull of wet mold like patellar groove like fallacious mouth like electrical socket. there is no telling when each shape took to itself— how hard a door must slam to dictate the way a nail can grow— but i know there is space there now, slippery, present. i run my tongue along each slope. i tell myself there is nothing there now, so, of course, nothing can ever come again.
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