By the seaside
Along with the books you gift me.
With thoughts that catch on fire
The way they burn to beautiful.
Like the white ash
At the tip of a flame.
The sound of your voice
It's never too much.
Our conversations cherished
Like leaves pressed
Between book pages kept.
And your poetry
That slips into the veins
Of leaves.
I love that
And I am grateful for you


One thought on “Still

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