It’s as though in that first time together (on the second round of firsts), as the hidden song on our mixtape played, I married you in the only way that matters. Blood of my blood. And then, in puddles on the floor, I died before morning. In each other’s arms, we are ghosts—gossamer ectoplasm spun in webs around each other. When you enter me, you enter a memory, and I receive a phantom.
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