House of Heart

In this  hot and humid  night I doubt that  I am coherent.  Alone  in  bed  at two in the morning has teeth. When you leave I feel a visceral loneliness that I am certain is internal.  It always feels like April here.  I ramble on  about sunny meadows and how the wheat smells  of  lavender, tell you again about  the  painting that I am working on  and how it takes so long to dry.  I am acutely aware of the  momentum of  words and how I miss the  tender touch of your hand on my thigh.   My hands  are worn raw  in search of common ground but I haven’t the words to not betray myself after you have gifted me  your history.    Implicit trust frightens me.  I wonder how you  have such faith.   I consume all that you  give me  as though each secret could never be an infringement…

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