A celestial sort of peace invades me, resting in the hollow of your frame for the first time in one-hundred days. Simple as slipping back into an old skin, I melt noiselessly into your mold, as mindless as pulling into the driveway of a distant life. You look taller, arms fuller, eyes a paler shade of sky. But this, I know, is only love’s illusion, magic orchestrated by a mind madly consumed with missing you. I love you like teeth colliding. Like eagerness and goosebumps. Like a waist pulled close. I think to myself, aching for stillness, poetry doesn’t suffice anymore, because it doesn’t. It couldn’t. Because when you tuck me into your cavernous spaces I’m breathless and numb and the story, the only one worth telling, can write itself.

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