If Kisses Could Be Sent
Sometimes
I want to melt
with the morning—
ride the sun,
swing to the clouds,
sing in your voice
just once.
I never actually told you
how I adored
those few soft hairs
that escaped
the grip of your bun.
How they danced
without permission.
How I loved them
for it.
If kisses could be sent
through regret,
you’d have one
this Christmas—
wrapped like a gift
I should have sent
last July.
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