Wilds of Heaven

Gay St. empty at 5:30 in the morning this Saturday.
You riding on the handle bars of my bike, laughing,
long, black curls flying into the wind, into my face.
Everything was perfect.
A small, South Knoxville home, sun still soft, distant,
we, laughing, kissing, in love, fall into bed, still vibrating
from the night that was so sweet and perfect.
Nothing like it will ever come again.
As the birds call out their song in the trees outside,
we fall into a shared dream of some perfect solace.
The perfume of your hair invokes the wilds of heaven.
I wish we could dream forever.
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