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Jonathan Bruce

Jonathan Bruce

Sometime in the morning
It would be marvellous if I could say,
That I’m writing this under the light of an unfathomable amount of stars,
Sitting beneath a full moon
But I am not.
I am typing this in a semi-dilapidated bathroom,
Bathed in the light of my also semi-dilapidated phone.
And there’s a tap dripping.
I would turn it off.
And I will when I leave.
But for now.
I need it.
To ease the ever patient,
Ever waiting silence from under and around me.
To join my shallow breathing
In permeating the quiet creaks and croaks
Of the ever so lovely local life surrounding my house.
It helps.
A bit.
I stroll to the room nextdoor.
My room.
I’ve left the tap dripping
But I’ve replaced its particular percussion
With the ever so reliable monotony of my fan.
Predictable.
Consistent.
It makes a nice change.
It tries to cool me off.
But my insides are already frozen still.
It would be marvellous if I could say,
That I’m writing this under the light of an unfathomable amount of starts,
Sitting beneath a full moon.
But I am not.
I am typing this in a semi-dilapidated bed,
Bathed in the light of my also semi-dilapidated phone.
And there’s still a tap dripping.

By: Jonathan Bruce

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