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When you and me’d get an itch and go down to the river and be alone and look at each other through dilated eyes, ache into each other with our sides, speak with smirks and head nods and flushed cheeks, tell stories with our scuffed knuckles, bruised sides, limp necks and lips and heads that dripped blood on the plywood floor of your mom’s ’93 VW Bug, tell stories dug out of us like spade from earth fast and expressive at first, slow and plodding half way through when we hit roots and reached the core of something like our father’s guns or your uncle’s shed or your brother’s hands, one breath at a time, sharing each other’s earth until all the air in the world was only enough for one of us slipping razors, shaving skin, changing grips working higher and higher kissing higher and higher slipping under the water slipping into each other as sisters brothers cousins the way you held me there until I went limp the look in your eyes when I said this time was the best time since the first time yes yes yes.