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  • I am not going to bed alone because
    you are still here with me. Like your
    voice, hushed, whispering by screen
    door, naked by open window.
    Your beautiful hazel-green eyes see
    all the way through me.
    I know it's not painted like this (as
    I saw you in a line, waiting to board
    a plane that took you a thousand
    miles away) but you're here.
    Still. Here, using broad strokes with
    pastel water colors. Fingertips painting
    my skin with delicate caresses
    you'll eventually take back as
    remembrances or momentos or
    notches on a belt.

    Last August I was alone in a crowd
    with dwindling endings and struggle.
    This August I am new beginning,
    all skin and wanting.
    We both know we're painting without
    brushes but making imprints on each
    other, of each other.
    Holding on to warmth underneath
    sheets from that wild predawn-
    post-sunset tangle of creation.
    Creative creating of comfort and
    hope that blooms in a sweltering
    hothouse and possibly something more
    - that can flower longer than a single day.
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