by David Harbilas

    After that night apart I heard
    the reports of witnesses
    who saw you at the party with friends.
    I imagine the room smelled of wet laundry.
    The bedsheets had sand in them, the pillows
    were without covers, and the zippers
    chewed at your ear like another lover.
    You passed out while a couple had sex
    in the other bed. You told me this
    only after a long silence, your words
    a derivation of others', like the faded colors
    of an albino species. If told with candor
    and amusement I might laugh.
    But you prefer your shadow-twin
    to match the story with common knowledge.
    You smile, as if into a mirror.
    I am frightened by it, and when I reach out
    to shake your hand I feel my own.

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