hand held in
hand, like
the water cradles up
a fallen leaf, suspended; still

lips on
lips, like
the comfort of cotton sheets
some November Wednesday night

fingers curled
on my back, like
the smell after the rain,
mysteries rising from wet pavement

coconut-silk hair tangled
with mango-freesia hair, like
forgetting the grotesque details
finally, after all the dry decayed years

whisper promises in
porcelain doll ear, like
the scent of winter; the way it slips
from your throat
when you come to need it most


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