It’s a rainy Thursday night spent curled
into the corner of a couch.
It’s the droning voice of a stupid, vapid
Infomercial woman with tacky lipstick.

You can hear it in his voice during the day;
the weary, gravely whisper of someone
unaccustomed to lengthy conversation.

It’s the searing taste of hot chocolate
gulped hastily at a counter at 4 AM.
It’s the way the clink of the mug on granite
echoes far too loudly.

You can see it in his posture at night;
the way he slumps into himself,
like he doesn’t deserve to be seen.

It’s the jagged flash of lightning that slashes across the sky.
It’s the droning buzz of a lost TV signal.
It’s the way the gentle pattering of rain
goes on and on.