typing at your feet

it must have been a year a go? you wrote this O write. Write. Writing? who does this someone between. and coffee. hands that have not grasped nor touch.

now your wrist is sore/ nose blocked / eyes returned ...a after a fashion of seeing. winter's a monster. that never ends apparently a winter which    ~ did  a prose poem contain there...O but the nose does not smell a lover's perfume. between your writings. of bodies carnality of roses, and mouths. in the arms of tangled perfumes.

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