Your love,
without relief of occasional plosive hi-howya-doin’s,
without punctuation of kisses
or hugs,
feels like
a maelstrom.
Its whirling me,
its force
in ferment,
takes me
to uneasy places,
when I’d rather be by you
simply
listening to your voice
like still,
soft water.
-
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Heath Quinn elsewhere
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