you steer her towards
some tom waits,
singing about a grapefruit moon,
or a 29 dollar
alligator purse. but she'll have
none of it.
i'd rather put knitting needles
into my ears
than listen to that.
that, that. she can't find the words
to describe how
much she hates his music.
which is fine.
just fine.
You don't like Abba, which
is what she sings to and plays
incessantly all day long.
you're different, the two of you.
the distant between
you growing with each
painful conversation.
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