Honey;

He vibrates through my chest
like swarming
like bees buzzing 
like maybe it’s just my knees shaking
like maybe at the end of this poem 
there won’t be a “stung”
Like maybe it’s just him saying my name again,
that picks at the honey comb 
cavity of my chest,
pollinates the heart,
ends like bee’s life span:
one job, and then (un)done.

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