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I want to sit in the garden,
heat prickling my cheeks
and your arms around me.
Maybe it’s Sunday,
or some timeless expanse
of empty, warm space
with our toes in the grass
and my hand on your face.
I want to force the thick moment
into a glass bottle and seal it
with wax. I’ll hide it with jam
in the pantry until Winter comes,
and we’re both empty
and yearning
for a morning of sun.