Like Touching Gold

February 24, 2011

Behind his eyes his heart, a shiny dark stone inches deep in cold, moving water.

Like touching gold, my mother said.

The smell of his hair like a deck of cards at the cottage.

“I don’t know how to make you happy,” he told me.

His hand on my forehead and I can feel it, the light I cannot quite let in. The wide chest and wide dark lashes.

Last night he said he often feels like I’m disappointed in him, the smell of his hair like a canvas tent in the sun.

The way he looks at me sometimes. Each breath of him like home, like laziness and calm, like the comfort I want to find.

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