I like

I like the way the barista’s heart pulls when I take my first sip.

I like when children try to carefully eat but, believing they are clean, have remains on their face.

I like to watch the remains of night shattered by morning’s light.

I like to wonder what death felt like just before I was pulled from my mother’s womb.

I like to fall asleep in the heaviness of warm sex that softened me.

I like to imagine a hot day filled with iced glasses perspiring, leaving water marks on pages, mid-day naps intertwined with you.

I like to feel the softest breeze draw the loose hair across the nape of my neck and the catch in my breath.

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