Number nine 

I’m cold, and I spill on the coffee table 

my hearts still and still

surrounded by guards aghast by the pain 

pitter patter on the roof 

grommet sized thunder growls under branches and into the lions belly

Blowing smoke into pastures of promised land while images of you are supposed to poof

and here I am miles and miles away waiting for you to say 

I can feel you, your tongue, your lips 

wet and 

amiss in these heavy summer rains 

pitter patter on the roof- he serenades with a loose smile,

am I gonna go insane? 

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