The spiders have made their home on my balcony.
I hate them.
Dusty, sticky webs in every corner; abandoned.
They make children to make us children.
This is my space, you vermin!
I come here to write.
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The universe is doing that thing again--
making itself unknown.
And now that it is small and quiet,
I can hear two things:
1. The pounding of my heart
2. Your call
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Under the sun I am immune to winter.
Thawing out in frozen socks.
A few birds chirp nearby; a few cars thrum.
My head is the loudest, yelling,
"Fucking come here already!"
I'll stare out the window and await your return.
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