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"What do you mean?" the whisper came.
And who can tell whether we found
our ghost or face of crumpled linen
in the tumbled heap of bedclothes?
The folds between seemed to matter
in the chasm of crushed pillows.
When the romantic shades and shadows dawned,
we seemed to feel a little faint, to swoon.
The merge of our souls conjured by potions,
of dreamt nights when lovers' heads flared with flame
that licked icicles delivered by tongues
bold sharp in their thrust and salted comments.
A melt in bed dissolved the agitation:
the excitement tingled in sweet sweat,
and put to rest all sterile exchanges
in the caressed hush of whispered, shared sheets.
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