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by fyn
Rated: E · Poetry · Biographical · #2273461
I should know better...
I turned over the day
to find naught but pale worms swimming
in mooned reflections
of something I once dreamt
when twisted in sweat-soaked sheets.

Ever the optimist,
went back to bed to sleep but
the pillow was too warm and I,
I was freezing. The clock
stuttered on three-thirty-seven.

Too early for the alarm but bells
were already shrilling. Gusts outside
my open window inspired chimes
to chords no one should ever hear
accompanied by rumbles in the distance.

Opting for coffee and a window seat
to the impending storm, I curled into myself
but the blanket wouldn't cover my feet.
Always a notebook at the ready,
I thought to write but the pen was gone.

My brain cycled through disjointed,
lightning-lit images. My husband wondered
out why I was awake--was it the storm?
I can't find my pen, I muttered.
He handed me a different pen, wandered off.

Sirens wailed, breaking the night.
Safe-room in the basement smells of
something best lost, the dog whines.
I love you, he said curled up close
on the couch, and I sleep.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2273461-The-Morning-After-The-Moonshine