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  • I brush my teeth alone.
    I used to have another pair of feet next to mine,
    another toothbrush on the rack,
    another squeezer of toothpaste,
    another brusher of 32 (or perhaps a few less) enamel faces.

    I remember what it was like to have someone to brush next to,
    as I watch the water twirl out of the sink,
    disappearing like smiles, like the other coffee cup, like the warm spot on the other side of the bed.

    We had that. It was lovely. And then we blew it.
    Mostly small things, too small to pay attention to.
    Some big things, leaving us broken here and there.
    Broken up like cracks in a porcelain sink.
    Too many cracks and the sink doesn't hold water anymore.

    Now, just one toothbrush. One squeezer of white goo. One fair of feet on linoleum floor.
    It's okay. But it's not lovely.
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