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I woke up with your name on my lips

And dried tears on my face, craving you.

There's the shape of you in me, scotched in gold.

My body calls for you. A place I cannot name.

Are you playing me? If you are, I'll be your cello.

Obedient, servile. I'll sing for you when you pluck my strings.

I want you in a manner I can't describe. 

Maybe the fresco on the Earl's ceiling. It hurts. I hurt. 

Does it have to be this way?

I resume knitting the tapestry, humming our song. 

Aching for you.

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