I have pins in my chest and the feeling of grass between my toes trying no to feel anything here. A muse, so passionately exposed and drawn into the precious, most dangerous parts of me. Wind in the night, awaiting the light of day in the white sea – sinking into your side of the bed. Spring blossoms round your lips and lush moss that cups your pupils. Lounging in gray sleeves and hair that ebbs and flows down the sensitive skin on your neck. The sound of a drum I find familiar, like sunshine trickling, slowly, down your cheek and your temple. Avoiding red wine on the sheets and I long for thick, wool fringed blankets against my cool feet in the night. I’ve never felt skin quite like yours or seen the days in July quite as you do.
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