Islands This is the full spate of want I cannot stop it–my need your lips and how they send your voice to me I want to press and print your flesh onto my skin I search for words to open your palm for I cannot write your hands not unless I can hold them so that we might be fingers ribboned touch to touch as we catch our breath our laughter quenching this drought I want us–unmasked and the half-memory of faces restored with your mouth meeting my name we two now one and no longer islands Cáit O'Neill McCullagh
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