I sleep while you work on, work and watch Ugly Betty. When you come to bed you tell me the snow has started, ‘although it sounds more like icy rain’. Thick duvet and you strip down for sleep. At 5:30 a noise wakes you up, you share it with me and then we drift.
The warm air over the water causes it. It’s rare.
The next day, you hang out at the apartment, it’s your home too, but having you here makes me restless on a weekday. I create a petty gripe and pair it with a real one, magnified, and the anger is right there, sweet, untouched and I could punch a wall but I know that’s ridiculous.
Last night we had thundersnow, but it didn’t accumulate much: lots of noise, but no follow through: this is me. You are a storm that appears on the horizon after dark falls, and the wind picks up the moment sleep takes us, and when we wake in the morning, we’re snowed in.
published in PNReview 178 & InterLitQ 2010
