Your first love should always be yourself, a platitude. The room in which light has been tamed, especially by yellow drapes. Elongated and swollen. The closer you get to these ghosts, the damper air becomes, crusted with low salts. To love humanity too you must swim through all bodies, not owning, not owing: you must skip through all bodies like a wire engorged with flames.
You must skim through all lobbies like your first thoughts still come in a box, peculiar only to localhost, idiosynthetic. Your second love will always be coffee in the Cafe Du Monde, paper hats taking holes through which street voices sluice with amorous redundacy. Kneeling before the world's only clear puddle, trying to cup your reflection in your hands, your hands slip behind Ohio clouds to a sound like sucking laced with exquisite lemon.
There are footfalls on the stairs deep below outside.
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