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Photo by Ehud Neuhaus on Unsplash

In the grasping silence of a kitchen,
crickets ring through gaping windows. Chaos

sets in hyperconnected fantasy
where I stand, elbows on a stool, folded,

aching, listening for the next cycle,
and the snap of sticky feet shifting in

place; fingers light on bulletproof glass tap
out rainfall, stealing breath from the flat dark,

expelled later, eyes closed, warm hand on skin,
face down in a pillow, suffocating.

But I wake up; they all do. The beds warm,
empty, as the crickets dream of new strings.

Written by

Husband. Father of four. Cyclist. Musician. Poet. Sci-fi enthusiast. Writes from Boston, MA.

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