Outside Looking In

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Your shoes are in my spot when I walk in. There's nothing bubbling on the stove, but that's not really your style, sober.

You're stretched out in bed, asleep already, though you can't have been home an hour yet. You only sprawl in the beginning or the end of sleep, never for the main haul. No, for that you withdraw into yourself in the same way as when someone introduces a topic for conversation about which you know nothing.

The kitchen could use a scrub-down. The bathroom too. But I don't know the first thing about frosted glass, so I brush the crumbs into the sink.

Hard to resist getting in bed, even as awake as I am, when I know if I wait too much longer I'll have to actually wake you up to get your arms around me.

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