Separate Bills

There is this thing we forget,
Like rotten chicken at the base of a bin,
The sweet little pains
We hide in croissants
And nibble like lonely squirrels at dawn.

There is this thing we forget,
Like athletes foot shared in showers
Surrounded by ego and shame,
Divided objectives
Like towels being whipped,
Our names scrawled on separate walls.

There is this thing we forget,
Like beggars at sunrise,
Foxes crying at dusk,
Or the long lonely walk
That forgets where it’s heading
And stumbles across pussy footing.

There is this thing we forget,
Like dropped hairs on a wet bathroom rug,
The sweet dried up spit
We store in the corners of our mouths,
Conversations in cemeteries,
Our names typed on separate bills.

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