There was the night I read poetry
to you, in bed. Over tea, we sat up until
about two. Your hair fell upon my bed,
and left your scent on my pillow. I'd
be careful not to sleep on your side, to
preserve it.
I read Gary Snyder, and you read some too.
I miss that. I wish I could remember which
poems you read to me, so as you could know
how much I loved to hear your voice.
You were always so nervous when it came
to your own words. Give them love, and
they will blossom. I always loved your words,
caressed by your tongue, written by your soft
fingers. Fingers wrapped in mine, as we slept,
our tea cooling beside us.
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