I love to watch you write.
rusty typewriter —
still growling when punched keys
shift the carriage back and forth
the smell of medium roasted coffee
lingers, even though the cold draft of November
swims through the air.
the smells and sounds bounce off
the furnished walls that expose brickwork and mortar —
and the slight contusions
of hungry kisses play about my neck.
your back is towards me, decorated with
the length of my nails
and I smile —
I love awaking to these mornings, where
the passion of late nights still hovers
in your fingers, as you sit and write.
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