The first time I hugged him
And the last time
Smelled the same.
Tide pods and uncertainty
Of how long to linger
How much to squeeze
To rub my back
Or let his hand drop
Meet my eyes with a smile
Before he looked away
For the first or last time
The beginning saw us both in Vans
He handed mine back to me
In a bag at the end
And shoved my heart into
One of the foot holes
like bundled socks.
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About the Creator
Angie Doe
A poet dealing with the daunting realities of entering my 30s as a black woman with a less than ideal love life in New York City during a pandemic. These are pieces of myself that I’m finding and trying to put together cohesively.
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