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Sometimes, I can’t tell if the thrum within the hand I’m resting lightly on your chest is coming from my heart or you.
There are gently ringing bells, a subtle tintinnabulation from a waft of patient air through heavy doors so rarely used
or even opened
that the hinges rusted through.
I wanted information, but the sweetness of the questions that your breathing raises in me only wipes away the things I thought I knew.
No invocation or memory potion can assist me now, so I’m left with only mysteries that whisper in the quiet room.
And outside all your flowers are in bloom.