the color of angels
on rain clouds in
late summer
is slate gray,
the grasses grow dry
with the drought,
that month of passing on
to other worlds,
the air gets filled up with
humid heat of lover's eyes
and my sweaty palms
on black leather,
milk and mountain air,
please do not be any of those things.
smell sweet as before,
let me brush the skin
of those hands again, let me replay
every moment I missed
and every kiss
I could have given.
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