In my dreams, he comes to me
the way the sea does:
all hunger,
all memory,
all gravity.
His voice,
God, that voice,
low, rough,
speaking to me
in the language of want.
I wake with salt
on my tongue
and an ache
in the shape of him.
I still meet him
where the world
loosens its grip,
in the undertow
between memory
and desire.
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