20 April, 2004


...there is no spoon.

Gentle combings while she spends an hour coaxing tangles from my mass of hair.

Waking to birdsong through an open window, air stirred softly by the whir-shush of the ceiling fan.

Rose scented slide of creamy froth, gritty cat's tongue stroke of goatsmilk and honey, both bath bars from the hands of my exquisite friend at Callimondo.

Tiny hands smoothing mango butter into Mama's sunburnt shoulders.

Seagulls strangely silent; a silky breeze skips, lifting scent and moisture from the darkly sparkling bay.

Fingertips that hold my chin as he presses a kiss against my cheek.

Heart throbs in my throat; skin sings with the tingle of spring.

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