A man with long dark hair lays sleeping on his back with one knee up, and one leg hanging off of the bed. He is wearing a red robe, open, and a green shirt. He is nude from the waist down, an a pair of glasses lays next to one outstretched hand. Green watercolor leaves sweep up one side of the image, and circle over his head.

Whenever I see him laying in our bed after we've made love,
with the unconscious grace afforded his gender,
I always think of a refrain from the first poem I ever wrote about him
back when I believed capitalization was best afforded to the gravity of heavier words
And the romancing of my youth lacked the depth that maturity provides.  It was titled:

a time of salt

there will come a day
not as close as we desire... not as far as we fear
yet ever closer, day by day,
in which we will be together,  joined in salt
and in sea
and silk
raw and freshly spun
wrapped among the sea grapes
entwining two souls that never forgot


there will come a time
closer now than before
as time moves to our favor, if not to our whims.
there will come a time
my desrest love.
my heart's desire.
my sweet bird...

the sea grapes await us
garlanding my hair and our hearts
to let the salt and sea bind our intent.

Handwritten, cursive signature says "pea flower tea" in lowercase letters. The flower is a small sketch of a bloom, instead of the word for "flower".
If an idea doesn't explode orgasms of bright sparks, cascading into and setting my own dark places alight, then I probably won't write about it.

Tell me something that moves you.

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