How Full of Furies

They fuss over the details of their bodies, the small, out of the way spots, behind the ear, between the shoulders, in the hollow of the back. They trace their bones through flesh and curling black hair, rub the points of their hips for luck. They nip at each other and leave pale half moons behind to slowly fade away. When they think no one is looking they sneak small, private kisses that lead nowhere, kisses without reason or number, in bathrooms, in kitchens, on rooftops and in elevators. They do not hold hands, but sometimes they will stand close enough that their fingers brush against each other as if to say, yes, hello, I am here, I love you.

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