The
delicate hands of a lover. To be
searched, taken and known. Firmly,
passionately, gently. Rapture and
cascade, of flesh like an instrument. The
music of clasp and bloom. Wild one, I
have been those hands. Forever. And here. From song to star to soil. Dreaming, knowing, yet never as it was. We are the legacy now, and more. Petal, garden and wing. I have loved you in the open and the hidden,
for what else am I if not yours? Shining
mirror, devoted. The gate is your
blooming, sweetheart. Entirely. Your skin is with my skin, if you allow, and I
am lost no longer. I weep gladly in
secret grey. More than this, or that. As I speak or write your hands. Your kiss upon my wounded, that brought me
back to grace. And life. This budding spring, and scent. This brief tremble of mortality. Blow o wind, to the crescent of her dreaming. Repose, healing, by the light of the poet's
moon. Bless her path, of branch and sea.
The blossom, the cherry, the tree.
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