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There is the sound
of her voice
first thing in the morning
whispered and heavy

There are her scents
sweet, or tart
depending on her mood

Of course there is her movement
steps down the stairs, slower than necessary
because she wants it to last

But mostly, it is her touch,
her fingertips
on my arm, on my chest
tracing my lips ...

It is her touch that devastates me,
always.

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