Before We Climb Into the Covers

I watch you, watch me

as I remove the top
of that red box of letters;

(the ones that began
on the first of May

when we were still awake
like the sunrise
and dew was on those petals
I picked
and prodded for answers
when it was too soon
to know.)

I feel you, feel me

as beats skip to words
said then, said now,
folded, lipstick-kissed away
for a rainy day,

just in case I forget,
(or you forget)
how soft they were;
how warm in whispers
to the ear.

I hear you, hear me

return amorous syllables
in breaths meant to be
inhaled by yours,

(like poetry or wine,
women, or anything

that gets better with age.)



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