There you are in my yard
without your shoes. This is the fourth time
since Tuesday. The sky turns pink
and I have lost my voice
somewhere between Hawthorne and Pleasant.
Everything is turning into itself.
I love you. I think I could love you.
Limbs fall onto the lawn. You erupt
and I am tired of cowards.
It had been simple: You swimming in my sheets,
you swimming inside of me. Beautiful
is like any another clumsy word
in the English language, but my god,
the things I would do to hear you say it
again.
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