She tells me her name is Beatrice
as she leans into me, lithe
with a hunger that smells
like sadness on my skin.
Her voice is sparrow-light, tuned
to the haste of retreat, the way a promise
smokes while smoldering into ash.
Still, she takes my face in her hands,
brushes the hair from my forehead,
spoons me into molasses eyes
and feathered breath — mirror
and plea, a trumpet bell
It’s so beautiful how love can exchange through small touches. Bless her precious and perfect heart ❤️
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Yes, bless her beautiful heart and spirit.
Oh my, Beatrice is so precious!! How can one not fall in love with her?!