White Bear

Waiting.


Curling slice of moon.


One month.


Hungry, pacing.


Frozen inside.


Will she...?

Then she comes, through the trees.


A great easing,


melting,


unbinding.


Hope.

Feel her above,


legs against my skin.


Moving through meadows,


undersea.


When we stop,


drinking in her voice.


Her purple eyes.

She came back.

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