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Tom McDaniel
You Came to My Bed
I slept, last night, with the front door unlocked.
I didn’t mean to, but it slipped my mind.
I also left a light on in the kitchen,
which may have had an effect on things, because
you opened the door and gazed in on my form.
I cracked an eye, to see you seeing me
cold, half-covered, naked in my bed —
man that I am, clothes rumpled on the floor —
and full of tenderness, you came and lay
beside me, simply, and sighed.
I smelled wildflowers from miles and miles around,
felt feathery wisps of newborn leaves, warm zephyrs,
as you touched my face and whispered some unknowns
that stayed behind. Those breaths were made of spring,
that’s all I know. And then there came an instant
when half your skin meshed oh! with half of mine…
I pulled you close, with hunger, love and need,
and breathed you in, exhaling all my pain,
taking you in love, and giving mine...
and we’ve never even met.
Tom McDaniel, 2005
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