Matthew James Wilson

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The Touch

I'm cold.

We stand in the green rain field.
People have been -
Smiles and whispers remain.

I have forgotten
To bring with me
A shirt
Or garment of similar function.

Formality flees, fleetingly.
As you, with your eyes that smile,
Put your arms around me,
And warm me in ways
I cannot explain.

My own arm around your waist.
A grateful squeeze
Then separation.

And I'm warm
In desolation.

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