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sometimes, as i fall asleep
i imagine my bed as a painting,
or a sketch, a simple portrait posed
with precision- one hand carefully placed
beneath the pillow and my body stretched
out across the sheets in the
shape of a crescent. and sometimes,
when feeling particularly lonely, i have
been known to trace the slight curve
of your spine next to mine,
your arm drawn so that it rests almost
carelessly, across my chest. i take care
to angle you so that the lines of your hair
spill across my neck and your lips,
a simple stroke of the pen, or brush,
blend into my back, moving the way
they did the first time we slept,
all tangled and careless,
and you kissed me awake.
and at such times, when i find myself
waxing poetic, i try to remember that
no picture, no thousand words,
could capture the scratch of your
beard or the gray of your eyes or
the grace with which you touch.

XX

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about.

girl from a tropical paradise living in a cold but beautiful little island between england and the normandy.

and that's her life in almost daily irrelevant photographs and stolen poetry.

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