to my love

i thought you’d gone out, she said mostly into her pillow.

no, darling, i was just downstairs. 

what were you doing, she asked, her voice soft in summer dark

just straightening the kitchen, dear.

she adjusted for comfort beneath their blanket as he leaned against the doorframe,
waiting for his eyes to adjust.

are you coming to bed, she asked, her words thick and sweet.

yes, my love, i just need to write you a poem, first.

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