We share leftover spaghetti on the floor.

I spill sauce on my tights

and beer on your rug.

I apologize 

but you shoo it away—

the whole night is an apology

for the body,

the fugue of self-hatred 

descending, the marriage

of you and me and her.

She hangs heavy in the air

between us,

and me between you and her,

a placeholder for what is missing

in your life.

I do not mind my disposable status.

I am used to seconds.

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