The taste of a housekey in my mouth, metallic and heavy. How toilet paper at other people’s houses is somehow always wrong. A golden newel-post. The way a condom wrapper holds its nubby rounded shape long after our legs have untangled. Hours later, the house still smells like curry and I’m groping for the lamp pull. That huge glistening blackhead nestled in an ear. The way your knee looks against the upholstery of my car. Time spent bowlegged and crushed against the wall equals time better spent opening drawers, examining knick-knacks. How breath can’t drown out the sound of shutters snapping in the wind. How the leaves want to watch. Unmistakably, the drip of the faucet speaking alternating names.
Carrie Murphy is from Baltimore, MD. She is currently a student in the MFA program at New Mexico State University in Las Cruces, NM.
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