Weight

Comfort in the soft fur,

the leathered couch,

distractions before she 

leaves you for the night.

Downstairs, drunk and

dozing, a home you’ve

made soft in all but

edges. A late day,

a weekend. You think

back to what you wrote

before. Bent knees. Hands.

Fingers. Lingering cries. 

She hears you. Turns

another page. Reads words

you could have written

but didn’t. 

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