Stuff

I’m at a lover’s house
and you text me a picture
of yourself in my bed.
My house is yours, I told you
and it’s true
I come home and find your clothes
by the bed, your chapstick
on the counter, your shampoo
at the edge of tub.
You said before,
I’m living with you
and dating my husband
who I like and you love
and we, you and I, are in love
and you said, part of me is entirely yours
and the genius of that
slid everyone in my constellation of loves
into a new alignment
not a pie divided up into finite pieces
but an ever-expanding, unlimited
love for everyone, all expanding
together and each part of me
getting bigger now than even
the single part of me was before.
I grow huge and transparent
and bubbling up in me,
like the bloops of your lava lamp
are new shapes and arrangements
always shifting and changing
but still me, still you, still them
still all of us
and part of me is entirety yours,
and hers, and hers

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