A breeze, a breeze, then humid heat.
The fan circulates our sweaty air,
and we dismiss the blanket in bed.
We do this every-so-often;
lay down, cover, uncover, repeat.
The darkness never dims her bright complexion
as she lays, enveloped in her peaceful sleep.
This is a new level of calm,
once unbeknownst to me.
A calm,
where matches and razors and empty stomachs
don’t plague the center of the storm which it is.
A calm,
where she finds involuntary serenity.
A calm,
where I can bear witness to not happiness nor pain,
rather true neutrality in an unbalanced soul.
This calm,
smells like the green on trees after rain,
and looks like the sky, mid-July,
controlled explosions, artificial rainbows and smoke.
Her skin is the feel of polished marble in mansions,
dedicated to the millionaires of tactile art.
I think I hear a faint singing in her chest;
it plays on a kind repeat, what a lovely beat.
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