Some Nights Douglas Long • Poetry
—1— I wake up to rustling sheets and look over at you, slumped over the side of the bed in a cold sweat, staring off into nothing with pressed temples and stifled breaths. “Damn it,” you mutter. “What’s wrong?” I want to ask— but I don’t. I roll over and close my eyes as you get up and walk to the door and glance back, hoping you didn’t wake me up. But you did. You always do. A few moments later, I hear the soft hum of the microwave. A sliver of light shines from outside and I can see you through the crack in the door staring at your hands with tired eyes. You come back a minute later, groaning as you sit down and bury your face in your hands. I sit up and slowly inch closer, then drape myself around you. I hear you catch your breath as I pull you close and lean in to kiss your shoulder.
These Fish Bite •
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