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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