light green blankets pulled up
around face. a glowing grey of
the pouring rain sky. sheer
curtains near a lampshade slide.
a small violently flickering flame
finally settling down, illuminating
the knick knacks and keys and
a sleeping frown. the sound of
the typewriter, the sound of
waking up. the sound of a kiss,
suspicious of growing up.
biting my lip, crinkling my
toes, touching your hair,
touching your nose. sitting in
a chair, listening to the rain
on the tarp, to bob dylan on
the mouth harp. stacking books,
waiting for you to wake,
fingering the pages, wondering
'bout hemingway. putting down
the typing, picking up the page,
scribbling all my notes,
singing rain to go away.
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