Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Ooh, Matron!

Weak under warm blankets,

enjoying the magic of my fingers,

softly stroking your hair,

lips pressed against your volcanic temple,

as I worship my wounded warrior.

I hold you close,

hearts in chaotic sync,

I breathe in time with your sleeping symphony,

Mary Seacole of the twenty first century,

silently speaking your name,

as if it were a healing spell.

I kiss your cheek,

and you pull me closer,

and closer.

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