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It was while trying to explain to Emma
that you and I love one another
like a trip to the dentist
that I realised it was not entirely healthy.
That as much as I hate the inspection,
I know the whitening makes my face new
and yours too. That we sit
with chesire cat grins,
picking the bad bits out gleefully.
We come away clean
as teeth left in bicarbonate
or bones dropped in a jar of chalk
alongside a two pence piece,
which acts as a symbol of some history.
After the bad bit we do the fleshing out,
let one another nurse the cavities
made by all the bitter things,
you tell me of the prettiness of your girl
and say you see my heart sink
and would think that particularly
now I could be happy
for you, with your certificate in dentistry
framed and shiny.
I look at my spit, think the copper colour
might be part of history,
say its not that
I just don't like to see
a good dentist let his teeth
go so suddenly.
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