Your words,
a net of moonlight woven close around my heart
each phrase an olive branch,
steeped in fragrant anticipation.
A pulse like iron rain,
driving tacks through every nerve.
When you write that way,
fevered thistles bloom beneath my skin.
I long to be ivy,
coiling the shifting curve of you,
rootlets anchoring into every fissure.
To become night to your shadow,
flooding compartments of your thoughts,
touching the spill of your ink.
A dark wine
I would drink until I drown.
To crawl inside your flesh,
live in the hollows of your bones,
become the breath
that escapes your lips.
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