In the morning there is rain.
Long buckets of it falling drunk against the window pane like a heart murmur. It's appropriate. Cold and wet like the fishiness of a day that flops about gasping for attention.
Reluctance flutters across lashes. Shadows are borne of light. The snake-y sneak from dream to wake draws lines in the eye-sand of sleep.
Teeth clench against mouth-fur. A disciplined hand finds the light. Six AM feels like a fingernail clipping, but can be endured as long as it's bitten.
Off. Quick.
(Published in Going Down Swinging no.27)
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