Amsterdam

He’s asleep as I lie on the futon, silent
a sticky foreign air
blowing in from the balcony
wraps around us like a damp towel . . .
slightly ruffling his hair
against an angular jaw,
tense though in rest.


He sleeps
unaware that I am watching,
praying
for a cool breeze
to steal into this tiny room
and wash over my body
hoping
the steam
would clear my head


Sleep doesn’t arrive
but I listen for it
against the noise of traffic
my breath clinging to the pillow,
its cover wrinkled by restlessness,
damp from exhaustion


Night comes in from the canals
over bridges and boat docks
filtering into the room
as I question the time
wondering
how long it has been
since I ventured into
this curious arrangement...


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