Reaching across her back to crack the door,

90 degrees from deepest sleep, and 18 hours more.

My consciousness is bleeding out, a puddle on the floor.

Whispered wishes never miss, if never wished before.

It’s turning into something more than what they call enough,

An echo of the fountain where she fills her golden cup.

Where only my offering, a stolen kiss,

Could clasp those hands, could seal those lips.


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