dreamers often lie

In sweet dream sleep, you visit me.

Soft warmth of thin flesh haunts the cold slopes of my body in swaddled darkness dozing,

tickling smell-this of neck's nuzzled vapour whispers through me like a heady fog

and translucent frame holds memory of the what's-this and the like-thats of mine,

a contour perfect embrace of ours. 



Yet my lips cannot remember yours, 

your sweetness lost to them.

Our here-there, follow-me dance -

the waving tides of peach lips -

washed out in passing time.

Even in dreaming rest, this pretty breathy hush lies dead,


from my heart.

The thunderstorms of kissing you, in time grow pale to weeping rains

and dank lip-pressings herald the end of waking patience.

The End

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