if memory serves me

like the cold plump of blueberries fresh kiss
against your lovers’ lips
just before they burst beneath the cold press of your juicy teeth,
or the quick sound of your breath
blowing dusty earth away from the skin of its tiny blue horizons—

i’ll fall asleep without you again, from underneath the great sky above,
with no screens in-between us, tonight,
and ill remember the high noon’s breeze as the ritual purity slips from my clothes,
and the clamor of life as its drowned out by the night—

and hands sliding in separation,
and another golden yolk splays crimson, not so far off now,
and you color my dreams in bright youth

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