it's under the skin -
curls and quivers
and occasionally aches
it kisses you when sleeping
and mutters words of love -
so deep - heartfelt -
and your hands become paper
expensive and heavy
- the dimples holding ink -
when the sun rises pink -
it comes not as as opportunity
but as a chore
not unwillingly undertaken -
but it lacks the thrill of snow
The Blue Book
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