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My arms wrapped around your middle,

my head on your chest.

That feel of you, your smell and touch,

unwinds me when I’m wound.

Driving up Highway One,

windows down, as we navigate between

Leonard Cohen and Paul Simon and Coltrane,

and you’re teaching me things, and

it’s as natural as this

wind whipping through my hair.

Or in the early evening,

when you’re cooking dinner and

the dusk light pours in.

The record croons approvingly,

and I’m pouring us wine and

you’re telling me about your day.