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I felt myself blooming.
The tips of myself shivering.
Wondering. If your mouth was
a puzzle piece. If watercolor
would dye silt. If I could pull
you in with a skein
of silk.
I waited: and I promised
the water that spilled from me
was pure.
My fault, I know. My hands
open to the wrong light. Two fingers;
opening,           flapping,          furling—
turning                   convoluted inwards,
intestines in the muck,
mired in the thick deep place—
I had to find my own roots.
And even then. Only from below
I dreamt you swaying. Vivid, languid,
soft- burning. Skin warm to my touch.