We are an enclave of two, me in my wool sweater bunched big over my shoulders and you in that mottled calico talc fur slung silkily about you like steam covered hot linen hung to dry in the crisp morning.
While the rain whispers rumors of quiet mountain tops billowing powder mists, we settle the dark day in motel rhymes and figures, you curled stilly into yourself, me in half open heavy lids of thick thoughts.
Dripping gray afternoons go like this sometimes, lamp light and halogen halos smoldering light in echoes across the gritty wall as if the moon had been kept eons in a closet but then finally sprung.
The haunting mesh of daylight dim and nighttime kindle lit fuses daymares and nightdreams–you flinching in confused sleep, me somnambulantly signing a screen–prompting trees to twitch lies.
Outside the torrents settle into a storm’s afterthought, the sieve of fury dying out in mere frowns and hisses like the dancing crickets scraping leg music behind your closed lids audible to half mast mine.
Willow and me, no one else telepaths the wind’s significance, the rain’s history, nor the weather’s detritus quite like we two in certain dusty climes and time of day, when the nodding light slants true.