This room is an island, floating on the beat of car radios and the wooshing protest of air resistance against on coming traffic. Four bedroom walls are covered in newspaper clippings that serve as cheap insulation from the emotional frigidity of a sickly sweet Indian Summer. Thank you for entering reality by walking in the door. I wasn't sure before but I know that you're planning, sincerely planning, to be here a while longer. That after the oranges and yellows of September decay to bare bones, morning gray you'll still wake up in the bed next to mine, fall into slippers and shuffle off to the soft duet of toothbrush bristles and a low flow shower head. After all, your name's on the lease. More importantly, more legal and binding than flimsy little penned in words, is the once unfamiliar scent of organic, French soap that has made it's home in our closet.
yeah I try to write sometimes... feel free to comment or criticize :)
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