the brushes
the strokes
the pressures
they work like a midnight storm
in a warm summer
like an off tune lullaby
in my dad's shaky voice
like laughing for something
we would have cried about
if only we were alone
like a long ride with windows down
like the cool breeze
that waves our hairs flirtatiously
toward the moving scenery
like the sound of the moving cars
on the main road two blocks away
or the ticking clock when
everyone else is asleep
like my name, said in a low whisper
in between the pillow marks
half closed eyes
and crazy hairs
Almost, just almost home.
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