Sunday morning pen and ink scribblings after a restless sleep. Trying to catch the words to record a sort-of dream I had about her. And now remembering that it was formed from a series of real moments from a few weeks ago.

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I'm writing a poem letter for a new lover, using gall ink I made last autumn. I could WhatsAp it but that wouldn't be romantic as ink-stained fingers recounting the flow of finding how her body, entangled with mine, created such a state of bliss that we lamented needing to rise.
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