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tea and a rose-smoked moon



the shape of you is not the soul of you


I sit in my little house near the sea, surrounded by old books of poetry, while in my heart I walk cold hills with Emma and Richard. Music is playing quietly and the air fills with rose-scented incense smoke. I want a Turkish rug; I want someone to bring me tea in the cup I got from a long while's wishing. Outside, the svelte white moon sashays up through stars. There's a lot of talk lately about planets but I'd rather know what habitable places you have in the darkness behind your own heart.



3 comments:

  1. Oh my... the beauty of your words...
    Thank you xx

    ReplyDelete
  2. Love this, how beautiful these words are.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Mmmm, that last line. It's everything just now.

    ReplyDelete

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