The light sneaks through the slats of the blinds,
The room dully, soaks it in,
But there is enough to write by.
Pen scratches paper frantically.
The sound of the kettle boiling sneaks beneath the closed door,
It is only quiet,
But still enough to distract
And so the pen is lifted from the paper.
I turn up the radio
Upon which your unfinished knitting sits in the dust,
Your hand reaches out,
And gently closes the book in which I write,
And you kiss me softly on the cheek.
Yet still I write.
This dull room,
With light that sneaks so cautiously
It is scared to tell the truth.
The kettle is boiled.
Don’t turn on the light.