It's as if tears heat themselves
evaporating before scolding cheeks;
peach pink and bloodied red.
I can still feel, the tug of your fingertips
against my unlady like hair ; tangled, and split at the ends.
You sigh, you are tired. Routine leaves you no hours, to sleep well,
for others to have your nightmares for you.
You worry you can't change yourself-
I know how you feel, we're the same.
Some, if not, most of the time,
I just wish fortune would twist her sail,
so the gale would marry the breeze ;
and turn water from the hail.
Perhaps then we'd both have time, space,
to breathe without having to think-
who, what, when,
where and how,
to do it again.
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