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To R. C. Edrington's previous piece

As She Sleeps
for Camille

Words that touch me
in ways lips,
fingers never will.
Her voice
a caress
that dimples the skin
taught upon my soul.
I want to listen 
hour upon hour,
and often do...
while she lays asleep,
while my cigarette burns,
when the whiskey fails
to carry me
to a shelter that exists
only in her dreams.