It’s the final note that lingers,
caught in your hair and your clothes,
holding on to the threads like the comforting smell
of home.
It’s the rounded roll of a lapping shore
against the tiny whispers, as it washes
in and out;
a drug-like hush in a moonlit fade.
It’s the breathing glow of embers,
their orange hearts rise and fall
like throbbing suns
seen through the slats of a wooden door.
It’s the rush of blood in a lover’s touch,
the rosy blush of tender skin,
the growing tide of heat within,
and it’s the final note that lingers.


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