the waves ebb and
turn like the shadows
hidden in the folds
of a curtain
there is morning somewhere
behind the fog

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your hand rests
on the edge
of the kitchen table
there is no
silence here
only the light fading
like the slow
leaking of breath

an apple sits
on the counter
soft lines curving
into the white
shadow of the wall
we take the curtain
turning like a page
in restless sleep
and the sound
of the rain
murmurs cold against
the window

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