A•7A

Tinges of godly rays filter past the sheer curtains And echo off the bare walls, Rousing me from sore rest. She knows not yet her fast I will not break, Nor that I will not greet her as she wakes. All that will be known, Will be known in memory, As “That A-Hole from 7A.” Breaking free from the suffocation Of those slightly damp sheets, I hear Her breath break, and think myself caught. Feet floating across the shag carpet, I make for the balcony And knock over my small garden pots. “Oh no,” I breath, “Oh shit,” I think. Oh what din I’ve wrought; Surely, this slumbering boar Shall have heard my folly Yet she makes no move. I find myself thinking As I lay in this sad excuse of a garden, Of all the “I Love You” texts I’m going to ignore.