His writing,
One clack of his booted foot on the carpet,
Seamlessly walking where he has never been before,
The click is loud like a sigh of flowers,
Put in the forefront of my mind,
Stopping, a triangle of sound,
Walking downward, sloping as I wait,
Trying to grasp the meaning,
And the loud rubbing
As a cat hissing to get out
Always begins again.
Her typing:
Like a never ceasing click of high heeled shoes on a tiled
floor,
pausing only to examine where she has already been.
The clack-clack is faint like buzzing,
put in the background of my mind,
Going on and on, in circles,
jumping hurdles around me as I try to sleep,
as I try to think of something, anything,
but the faint scratching,
so like a dog wanting to be let back in,
never stops.
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