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I can taste the mounds of breath, floating in surfaces that profess dreams in transit with kisses of air.

Swaying in dances of remembrances from switched partners colliding in depths of measured stillness.

The dark warmth of chilly sweat deposited in the crevice of intertwined folds create the story of contact without touching.

Noises find silence under the rhythm of invisible drones, hitting trees to light the sky for rainfall of stars, squishing windows with messages for morning.

Flashes of hues stroke surroundings with disappearing acts that are retained for closed eyes dipping into elegant coma.

Photographs from years of wonder grip lasting embers that ignite into fiery paths that you follow in spirit.

The body remains to capture the sound of night.

From memory.

Written by

Juggling Wordsmith. I have a lot to say!

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