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I Rested in Your Arms MAG
I rested in your arms,
your rough, tickling cheek
against my throat –
you kissed me,
your mouth warm and wet,
and I smiled,
more from remembrance
than passion.
Sunset hovered before us,
violet, orange and rose, and
an icy river the color of your eyes
curved under it.
I stroked your back pensively,
delighting in the way cloth
slid across your shoulder,
but my soul no longer buckled.
“This isn’t breaking up,”
I told myself,
“I feel nothing breaking.”
It was only changing – melting,
not unlike luminescent
sea-ice dissolving in
spring but still
there, after all.
Later, I turned to watch a
rectangular glow pass
over your profile,
lighting your eyes from the side,
caressing each dark curl
in gold.
You felt my stare and
clutched at the wheel,
veins rising, square hands
suddenly cold.
We parted after a few
dry kisses,
my mouth grazing reddish stubble
and yours pressing my cheek.
I turned at the top of the stairs,
wind parting my hair in a
thousand places,
and watched your white car
grow smaller,
disintegrating, a little
regretfully, into the past.
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