it’s like that one time when
you fell asleep
on the train, in the seat, next to me, you leaned
away is a window, overlooking the Spree’s course winding
where I was sure you dreamed, the trees made whooshing silhouettes
and what that must have done to your sleeping mind, like paint
drips and runs and forms a body of soft shapes
it’s pretty intimate, less fearsome
is the part that is written in the reserves
any use for the outsider
A poetry prompt from The Sunday Whirl.
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