I. Dribbling dribbling
against the hardcourt
of your upper-lip stubble
in dark brown streaks
and streaky white.II. Rivulets of hot fudge
sundae toppings
dispensed as
circular tracks or loose Afro braids
into fragile plastic cups
taking the generous swell of
a beer belly.III. Or my own
rounded stomach
(I so desperately try to conceal)
with the two-month life
you had spilled
into it
the way your choco fixes
lose themselves
to your voracious
appetite.IV. And greed.
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