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When I roll, weary and roadworn, Back to the door that still leads home, You’re always just inside. And I skulk slow and silent, so not to steal your long-sought slumber It’s kind It’s comforting And it stresses me the hell out. I only want to sit Silent Solo Stories steeping, seeping back in. But, with your soft breath on the sofa, I can’t. The strains of the city and the shocks of the road Call for an airlock of sorts, A slow ssssssss to stave off bubbles of percolating parental pressure. Sometimes your sleeping spirit stunts such a shift and They simmer Seethe Shatter in spectacular fashion. I seem a Sweet and Simple Simon, Incapable of choleric collapse. But, cheated of my decompression, I might. Yet come sunrise, I would rather slink around this house’s creaks and coughs And tuck the stray corner of your blanket back beneath your chin, Than feel like a stranger when I finally head to bed. They say “You can’t go home again,” The seers Sages Swamis of the consanguine sphere. But as I settle onto those squeaky springs to sleep, I know:
I can.
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May 2020
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