You were especially close,
in May in my lap in the sun,
between us on the couch,
teaching the glory of napping,
as if the whole universe was one
busy anemone for a million years,
and one tendril rested
just as you did against my skin,
sifting, smiling, stretching.
You did not know you were going to die,
but cause and condition did.
This is the sea,
that leaves seashells
after a storm.
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