Rising Tide Crashing

The abyss of
your fingers;
the canyons of
your sighs.

I have never felt
the wind the way
I do when you
kiss me.

Given the
undulating
wheat fields
in your eyes;
given the
ticking in the
back of your
throat —

how ceaselessly
the second hand
crawls forward

— every movement
of our bodies is a
rising tide,
a realization,
a truth.

We crash our love
into each other
softly.

We crash our love
into each other
smooth.

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