my fingers cannot type fast enough
so I simply release them to find their own rhythm
to dance their own dance
some words caught
some not
it doesn’t matter
for they are not my words to own
and it is not my dance to dance
the silence pregnant with gentle tapping
like tiny feet running through my heart
there is a perfume in the air
the aroma of a rare flower
that blooms where not many notice
and fewer still stop to see
a gurgle of laughter erupts
like a bubbling brook rising from within
then a sudden baptism in a gentle washing of falling water
wombed in a song
cocooned in wonder
I rest
his beating heart
my only pillow
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