He had drank, she’d stood waiting.
At the window and immediately she is bare. A luminescent leaf.

The couch is a barren bed of nails. The aching pang of a river dammed.
Light comes into the living room uninvited announced with windowsill cooing.
The visions of places once dreamt of,
touching the mere lighting of forfeited want.
The blankets tossed and soft footsteps find that there are belongings removed
from bed stands and a thought that some doors are sorely too silent.

Time out for a three minute miracle.
Dried out.
Pleasures fled, bled from the last of unspoken longing.
The tiles are Italian, the smoke Carolinian.

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