Your hair feels like
the tops of
pussy-willow chutes
and sparkles with
the dust in my
bedroom.  Swirled
around my pillow.
the slats of the
blinds cast shadows
which mask and
uncover you all
at once.
I watch the gentle
rise and fall
of your chest
and your eyes flicker
with films I can’t
see- your nipples
turned
up to the morning sun
soaking it in like
a flower in a
field of snow.  But you’re
gray, and cold
and you’re
no longer
breathing
but I sit
watching
you,
just looking.

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