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As the credits roll and I turn to her, she explains to me her theory
That it was all "a metaphor for coming to terms with homosexuality."
She says that about everything we watch,
And I quietly tell her so
With the corners of my mouth curling up,
Like vivid red leaves in a soft Autumn sun.

I make a face that I imagine embodies the word "coy," but
She ignores my smile and my comment.
She doesn't kiss me; she doesn't know she can.
The air in the basement feels thick,
Holding me in place, and I get it:
If I start this, I won't be able to stop.
I think it's called inertia.

My eyes are fixed on her front teeth, which her adorable overbite
Always places on her lower lip.
She's thinking now, and if she bites down,
That'll be the trigger.
I feel like I'm fishing.
I move closer and bite down with her.

For the Masque.

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