A (bad) poem for Rouxpert
Sometimes, I come back from the kitchen,
from the bathroom,
from answering the door,
and I remember how I used to think only some of the pillows
and some of the blankets
would be his.
Sometimes, I come back from the kitchen,
from the bathroom,
from answering the door,
and I remember how I used to think only some of the pillows
and some of the blankets
would be his.