Deafeningly loud

There are stars on my fingernails, chipped
but intact. Galaxies unknown that make me smile
with all my teeth showing. Dimples be damned,
all of those kisses in the palm of my hand.
I’m not exaggerating an inch when I write that
my pulse is shouting between my ears,
little bronchiole florettes full to burst with
clouds of lovely, confusing unconsciousness.
Take the moment of waking when my eyes protest at opening
and my hair is a beehive of dream time,
and fill it with your presence.


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