The moon hangs
like an orb of insolence against
the tides of day, changing
hue by hue.
Arms clasping heads we sync
our thoughts beneath a canvas
of sky always helpful with stars dotting
dreams to eyes downcast an eternity
on devices. A long moment dies
like wind; we do not speak
nor feel the need of pouring
sounds to soothe a void. It
is there, this thunder of thoughts
wifi-ed between our heads, and I
bask in your strands of hair drawn
near by wind, perfumed by your presence.
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