Awake, empty-handed, in the darkness with the sound of rain
rattling inside the cheap metal gutters like muffled drum-fire.
The warm, soft smell of your hair pressed close still rich
in the sharp empty chill of the rented room.
The sough of the distant highway your night-breathing
rising and falling, deep and slow and far away.
2 comments:
Perfect, Chief. The aloneness of being alone and between worlds.
Visceral.
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