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Pressed against my ear,
A sigh and breath away,
Is a body and a face.
For forty-five a month,
He speaks to me,
And it is well worth it.
So I wait, chest compressed,
Lumpy-throated and
Water-eyed in the dark,
Wishing you would warm
My left side besides,
Wishing you were here.
No bad poetry is worth this:
To be alone and lonely.
I curse the Writer's Muse. But!
For twenty years of some shadow,
It was exchanged for this:
Six months of sunshine.
Note this!:
For what was the former
Was not truly lacking.
But what is the now...
...That is surely an addition
Of the highest reward.
I shan't take it for granted.