. . . there'll be days like this."
-Van Morrison, "Days Like This"




11:46 p.m.

it is thursday, but not for much longer, and
already I am sinking.
the rains have come, and the nights are long,
and you and I are crouched behind the sofa,
waiting for the thunder.
I don’t need an answer, you say,
but I am selfish and I am hungry for something more than
dryer sheets and faded notebook paper,
your scent still clinging to the feint ruled lines.
and it’s not my fault, you say.
you say that I evaluate too much, and
in a flash of lightning I agree.
I am tired, oh so tired, and your shoulders
have long since stopped trembling,
and all I want is to hear your voice singing
when you think I’m asleep.



(trying to get back to writing . . . trying to get back to sleeping . . . missing you.)

-A.