Baby and Love are feeling heartbeats:
though no hands on pulse
they know they're alive
Love's flown far, as Love can
Baby speaks languages the angels left on his tongue
Baby and Love hurt over a bottle of wine
over a few hundred kilometres
over two easy weeks
needing touch but
touching scalds their palms
Baby's put her heels on
sweated her skin clean
re-figured herself
she's worded harsh to Love
but Love knows
Baby's harsh is of heart
he still takes her to her bedplace
still wraps Baby up
Love still loves her, his baby Baby
... ghost hears them quietly,
her earthly weight suddenly apparent
because the most beautiful things are also the saddest
the TV plays on,
no-one, quiet,
ghost retreats
to some small space sadnecessarily.
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