salt.

she shows me how her eyes hold water
and tells me he is an ocean.

i ask her why she doesn’t sail away.

she sighs.
rubs salt between her thighs.
takes off her eyes and rests them by the window sill.

maybe the weather will change, she tells me.

the wind blows and blows
there is a salt hurricane in her little room.

somewhere, her cat cries and pees into the bundle of horoscopes
by the door.

i tell her people don’t change.
i tell her rubbing salt on herself won’t make him love you.
i tell her she is not a lighthouse and he is not a lost ship.

she gathers her cat, she opens her legs and says he will come.

leave, she says.
get out.

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