Spring

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Spring.
It’s spring and we kiss under
fresh sheets
the scent of lilac
and jasmine
and vanilla blossoms waft
to where I let you
touch my neck
to where my fingers
twirl a lock of your hair.

The open window brings
sounds of the street
and a breezey innocence

and we’ve never known fear;
we are alive simply to be here.

But it is winter and wrong
and I have forgotten
what to say
as the distance becomes
an ocean in our way,
and I’m snapped
back from my regression
into my own chapped skin
and raw days.

Flowers do not bloom.
I cannot hear you
sigh my name.

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