Midnight. You roam the apartment
restless, too tired
and bronchitic to sleep.
Every cough the kick
of a sniper's rifle.
You storm a beach of collage fragments
that demand organization; me,
on the couch, eyes closed, hand loose
around a glass of water.
We ended as we always do,
you next to me, curled against my chest
still unable to drift off,
delirious in a minefield of pneumonia.
My arms around you, nose buried
in your hair, powerless
against the axis of your lungs
to lull you into slumber.
Author bio:
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Soliloquies, The Coachella Review, and The Greensilk Journal, among others.
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