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
