Wandering Mind

The bees are dying

She makes me laugh

Deep,  gutteral, soulful

We pulled paint brushes down and across 

Grained, knotted wood

She told me I could sleep in her bed forever 

I cuddled with her dog

She holds my face when she kisses me

Last night, just before falling asleep, 

I felt her rain kisses down my spine 

Being held is a radical concept 

There’s a cut on my finger

I don’t remember where it came from

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