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Midnight petals



With a latte in my hand

and my feet resting on Phoenician sand

I contemplate how

I, the unworthy Lazarus,

how I will explain to you

that this time

I really did feel you

as you moved through my wounded cells.

Your petals arrived at night

as though to mock the mind

that put me to sleep,

swearing death had arrived.

To you, who have healed this wound,

I promise

never again

will I walk away from this

this field of midnight petals.







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