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She sits on her bathing chair
Turns on the tap
Then dampens the cloth
With her sweetest soap
Savoring its scent
The lather slides over her natural markings
A tattoo artist couldn't capture
I wash her hair of silver
Massage her weary mind
The benign wash cloth soothing her back
While the rinse splashes over her
She smiles as if she'd prefer to linger longer
Instead she dresses into her pale blue gown
And crawls into bed.
Perhaps I'll make roast chicken later, she says.
**written by petra michelle**
