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The Breeze

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I sleep with my window
Open most nights,
Inviting the breeze.
Sometimes it enters
Like a forbidden lover
Climbing up a rusty old ladder.
Sometimes it can’t find its way
To my tattered screen.
I like to imagine the breeze
Getting stuck in traffic,
Or caught in tree branches
On its way to sing me to sleep.
I sweat on the nights that
The breeze doesn’t visit.
Trapped in a nightmarish
Inferno, my bare skin soaks
The soft cotton sheets, the
Only thing separating my body
From a firm mattress hell.
And I wonder if my forbidden
Lover has found another man



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