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May 1
i want a promise of sunlight before i leave i
never wanted something so much as a picnic with any of you
and why is it the mussels i carry in the crook of my arm,
we keep in plastic bins with
rice and spice
not enough for you

the years we sat together
on a park bench eating:
watching the clouds flash against the sky
in colours of pigeons and the taste of
the way the
the other

and breathe against me please
write your newspaper and coffee
against the curls of my toes that stretch into
our bedsheets

how easy it would be in my mind with toast
and butter
and alarm clocks toning into morning light
and your arm never leaving the back of the hairs on my
tilting side

not so much leaning
you understood; but an intention towards
making shapes of what you'd
expect, in your head,
when it changed

just enough for the force
of you to taste
blossoms blooming the
corner of my lips:

that you'd never have found; had i stayed; straight on

who'd ever have thought, there was never a problem
except of that of admitting
how much one was so loved by the other?
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