Harvest

Nine on Saturday morning: all’s relatively quiet so far. In the city, I notice the silence most. It’s mornings like these when I trick myself into believing I could live alone in a small place out in the country. Yet the nights I spent alone would be too grievously long and empty for me to be happy with it.

Take what the day and people may yield; don’t ask for what they are incapable of giving. For now, the cigarette burning in the ashtray, its smoke curling into the air like some lost soul, the French Roast coffee brewed strong, and these paltry words written while quiet reigns out of doors will suffice. There will be time enough today to yearn for that woman’s body lying next to mine one more time.

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Published in: on August 16, 2008 at 9:31 am  Leave a Comment  

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