a breath on a cold window pane
the rustle of a turning page
with the absence of silence
at 3 a.m.
a murmur meant only low hum
of old pipes in the wall
squeaking easy
like dust motes in my lair
seen only in light
it’s really not fair
quite ache of sacroiliac
just memories scratching my back
with the absence of silence
at 3 a.m.








hello dearest Adagio so deep and poignant ❤️
Thank you, Brenda.