Stroke by Robert Beveridge

Your fingers on my neck,
a touch so light as to be hard
to notice when not fresh
from the shower. How your
beautiful fingerprints feel
more intimate than any
others on my skin. I catch
your hand, bring your palm
to my lips. It tastes
of raspberries and northern lights.

Your head on my chest, my blood
in your ears beats a tattoo
of infinite commitment, boots
on a dusty trail that heads
into a sunset that never seems
to quite slip into dark.


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