It is always of closeness
Of pervasive affection that my attention
Gobbles up, an integral hand
Stroking my cheek as I drift, I am drifting
To our bedroom where you lay plotting
Out sketches, concave figures,
The way I look in a dress. Famished fingers
Stretch up, meeting with mine, enclosing
Around them. We made this home
Out of neither sticks or stones but bones
Our very skin, two beating hearts.
It is all I think about when I'm gone.
But at least when I dream,
It is always of closeness, so that
Home is never too far.
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