Jungle Room
you’re my quintessential
midnight, catching traces
of you across the duvet
in the jungle room
cross-bred with speckled
remnants of your mothers’
perfume - or is it a candle?
you’re my ushering
silhouette. I hunt the shape
of you in all my spaces - absolute
or so poetically divulged,
the imaginary portion
slips away. I saw you
become my favorite Sunday
afternoon, blasting Moderat
while you traced well-formed
fingertips across my vision,
and I can feel no other
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