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You could have written me tonight –
the ghost voice of my open document
fetters me in procrastinator’s guilt.

I was only about to shut the day down
the myriad windows lined at its tab
each one just as lethargic of notifications.

Kernels of solitude, I otherwise relished,
smoulder as if on a heat of an open stove,
hoping, tonight, sleep won’t be famished

of dreams that haven’t been visiting
for several nights in a row. I am diverted
back to the first train – of thought – shut

down the day, away through windows
from where the trite world suddenly turns
interesting, and life at the sky predictable.

Write me out, the life out the windows
you see while the heat of your vessel
smothers unsolicited talk –

with a purpose to distract. Do not divulge
and write only to me; I shall bear within
me your scandalous eccentricity.

First published in In-flight Magazine