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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 small 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 more than once a day, because the apertures mattered. They represented every nuance of our partnership. What we never talked about. The erroneous assumptions we made of each other. The miscommunication. These notions fell into those holes, and so did I. Now I struggle climbing out.


This piece was first published in Eunoia Review.

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