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,

Unfinished,

Never finished.

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.