I couldn't talk about it, so I wrote a poem
No Rush
Hair brush through my hair, no rush.
The wrinkles will not slow, but time
slows on the satiny pillow, in throes.
The bed softly creaks as our eyes speak.
They do not stare as the fire sparks.
Familiar lips brush tender flesh, kindling
the oneness, the forever afterness.
The rush of internal flames combust
followed by serenity of tousled hair.
No rush to run bristles through my locks.
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