Love letter # 436

Yes, that kind of evening. Heavy silk, the nearness of rain. Bare shoulders, a mist of sweat on your brow.

In the golden light, the sculpture of your frame. At the dusk, your feather touch. In the dark, the song of sighs.

Then, come morning, what remains? What of wonder, what of flames? Shall we make with ashes the start of days?

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