You
When it’s three o’clock in the morning
and the only two sounds I hear
are the cats kathumping across the carpet
and the occasional vrum of the boiler far below,
but then I get up from my lonely position
to turn down the heat (since it’s far too stuffy),
and the vruming eventually stops,
and the cats dramatically pause to stare in confusion,
and I slowly collapse back down to bed—
an Alaskan frontier of queen-sized mattress—
that’s one of a thousand points in the day
when I’m thinking of you.
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