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At times I can't tell you from the bed.
The folds of the sheets take your shape
or your body lies rumpled and curled 
like silk, or satin, or chenille,
and the warmth of the blanket 
is the same as the warmth of your skin, 
warmth of your breath. 

This morning a small breeze stirred 
in the bedroom  and I looked and 
a glass of milk appeared on my nightstand. 
I read aloud passages of Anais Nin to the air, 
and the air echoed with your laughter.

Later, the air will speak my name
and if I look, the sunlight streaming 
through the window 
has crystallized into your form, 
then melted it 
so you can move freely and give birth 
to shadows and luminous auras.

In such a love as this
I can't tell you
from me