Saturday summer in October

I lie against the bed
my chest is thus acquainted with it's heart
the coarse thread of the seemingly endless field of blankets begin to seep into my conscious idleness
I stare into the distance
My sight shortened by the clouds that loom overhead
The buzz from the fan before me fills my ears to the brim

I think
and I notice
I notice
everything but that

I lie against the bed
I feel the springs dig slightly into my ribs

The rhythm of the whirring blades of the fan is unsteady

One leg of the chair it sits on is shorter than the rest

The wooden floors have lost its luster
It sleeps there in its jaded glory

The pile of clothes that towers over the edge of the bed leans,
lies against gravity

The crickets are released from the clutches of day
Once again they orchestrate a private concert for any who is willing to listen

Its soft lullaby lures me in a trance

I lie against the bed
My chest acquainted with his

My eyes see as far as the tips of my lashes
Seeing but not looking
My heart knocks on my skin
Asking, wondering
when will it see the light of day?

I lie against the bed
My heart acquainted with his