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“In light soft as smoke, light gentle as fronds unfurling; damp to the touch like the unknown curve of cheek & the sweet, unmeasured weight of new flesh, we glide through the rooms— ghosts, premonitions of a past we haven’t written yet, licking the plaster set soft and sticky, sweet pudding in the crease of your spine.” — Megan Ross
In light soft as smoke,
light gentle as fronds unfurling;
damp to the touch like the unknown curve of cheek
& the sweet, unmeasured weight of new flesh,
we glide through the rooms—
ghosts,
premonitions of a past we haven’t written yet,
licking the plaster set soft and sticky,
sweet pudding in the crease of your spine.