It drips through my fingers, the color of melted wax, warm,
not hot, cooling rapidly as my beathing slows and I do my best to clean up the
mess before sleep overtakes me, her face, a fading vision I hope I will meet
again shortly when I dream, and there it won’t me my hands that caused the wax
to ml, nor my fingers there to catch it. At this moment, when I hold back
sleep, I feel her present move acutely, kissing lips not really there, hold her
in my arms, cupping her in my palms, feeling the tightness as I squeeze, an
illusion, yet enough to keep melting the wax, night after night
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