coffee in the mornin


Miguel    is singing to me and I am wondering if the soft days in his love songs exist. If a moment could be painted in earth tones and eyes    meet eyes under the haze of perpetual caress and        the words you speak waft around like the          melody of communion and      bodies are not secrets, rather they are            wholly usurped by the            idea of together and      the food you serve in bed             tastes like a warm cradle,                                        a balmy clutch and      this day              is all days and      these enfoldings are all      enfoldings and      the fullness in                           the room almost overpowers us and conversation      is like an eyes-closed rapture and your eyes your palms your spirit’s house    won’t ever be the same and open Open. open Open      and never close and open      and and never        can close.


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