Posted in poetry

Unsettled

Rain taps on the tin roof
and I am in an unlit room
not thinking of you.
 
The air is cold, not like winter;
it feels like your arms
when they’re not
wrapped across my ribs,
your hand curling
next to my lips,
catching my more quiet breaths.
 
1:24 AM – the clock
sits on the table
next to the right side
of my bed, where you slept.
 
I am not lonely;
morning will be here soon.
 

Unsettled originally published at Melancholy Hyperbole – 2/8/14

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2 thoughts on “Unsettled

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