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Pores

I stumbled home, a few drinks in. I thought about how I used to love. No, how hard I used love. I tried to find meaning between the pores on our faces, my head inches from our picture hung on my fridge. The physical image meant nothing to me, but I stared at it several times a day, because the apertures mattered. They represented every nuance of our partnership. What we never discussed. The wrongful assumptions we made of each other. The calculated miscommunication. These notions fell deeper into those holes, and so did I. Now I struggle climbing out.


A variation of this piece was first published in Eunoia Review.

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