Wednesday, November 04, 2015

3am

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:

Podunk Paul said...

Perfect, Chief. The aloneness of being alone and between worlds.

Lisa said...

Visceral.