I've hours to fill these days
those sixty-second decades
occupy each place I go,
the dust thick about my home
a fit, sad place to write her name.
The ominous thud that fills my ear,
another beat of labored heart -
Soft, fair-pale skin
tender searching hands,
hair dripping from mornings' shower
traces across my waking chest;
those morning glory memories
go now weeping away.
Thoughts and will should end in love
in the end.
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