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I cannot remember
what she wore that night,
or the smell of the moon
at her wrist,
or the blur of her cheek
grazing the pillow.
I cannot recall details
of her voice -
what was said
or promised
once the heat of July
nested in the curve
of my tongue
and pressed back
her hesitation.

But I remember the shock -
the last tremor
of bricks and skin
carving an arc
into our breathing,
shaking the walls of her room
and the sound of the world
coming undone.