the edges of myself

words, words, words

Today you brought me soup.

It was perfect,

although its precision had nothing to do with

the gift and everything–

with the giver.

Stretched out across a lazy afternoon,

fingers running along the lines of your face–

through your hair.

my honey-coated throat– happier

with you here.

The sunshine poking its rays

through my window

reminding me that the world outside

my bedroom still exists–

though i’ve no need for it in this

perfect stretch.

Your features just inches from mine,

hand softly touching my hair.

These are the moments

calmly remembered, carelessly created

that stretch from one to the next

and chronicle a journey

that looks

and smells and tastes and feels

like love.

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