it’s not a “crush”, per se

it’s more like a crinkle,
the blowing of white sheets in the fan early mornings–
crumple, like the purple striped cotton of my gown
tugged across my bones to fall whispering
the same way he does,

lack of awareness of self except
as sensation- showered skin on sheets,
the ripped and gutted white comforter i still use,
first gust of rain grasping my cheeks with cold fingers…

more a lazy unwinding of loose links against
a bed of song and blur of sighs
the roll of unraveling flavor across taste buds
or the first caress of steaming water against the spine–
completely whole and old,
ever existent and worn smooth and deep,

this father’s work shirt feeling,
this cool bed after long days,
this flush of wine-teased nerve endings,
this not-love-just-like thing
just like very much,


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