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2012-06-17 - 11:01 a.m.

The silence after rushes in
to drown. It has weight and
it is heavy. It presses
into the thin white sheets,
holds us down. Slowly sounds
slip back to us,
the ticking of the clock
we made together on our second date
between laughing at the birds
stealing my muffin and questions
about your job.
Next I hear you, your inhale,
deep and then held, the fridge,
a car starting, my own shoulder
popping as I roll over.
There are things in the silence
I should have said, but it has
rolled out and now you cough
and a dog barks and I
walk to the bathroom
and turn on the tap.

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