Maple Syrup

There are two smiles you give, and maybe no one told you, but one of them is a big fat lie. One of them is a stage-whisper. One of them is as real as soapy snowflakes or one of Chekhov’s guns. There is no maple syrup in your maple syrup, I might say. Or maybe I squeeze your hand extra hard and say something like “now make me a muscle” until you flinch. That’s alright, too. Look: I just want that other smile. And it’s not the one when I’m on top, or the one when you’re snapping a photo of me with your fingers in the air. It’s the big, sloppy grin in the morning. It’s untraceable. It’s defaceable. It’s fucking maple syrup.


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