I wake up with a glint of spilling light on my face or a pounding of rain against the side windows. When I make my rounds downstairs, I have to rub the fog from my head and eyes and pray that there’s enough coffee left in the kitchen for the both of us. It’s only when she walks out of that bedroom door, with a baggy T draped down over her knees and the mild hair representation of a static electricity victim, that I realize why people get up and move at the onset of each day.
(Photo taken by me.)
Searching for new reads?
Poetry about Strange Cars or maybe a fictional novel journal about a Dioramist protagonist who struggles with a passion for writing and a former love? Be sure to check out my published wares on Amazon if you’re interested.
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