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Click here~*~
in a field of flowers -
wild as nature grows them -
we crush petals and flesh.
your press buries me deeply.
splayed hair takes root,
unruly strands entwine you,
pull you beneath the dirt,
below the sun.
in full bloom -
we are cut and gathered.
some discarded for speck of imperfection,
a whispered hint to companion while
petal dwells in wind or snagged
upon detail less lofty.
others pressed between pages of poetry.
~*~