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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