Sunday Afternoon Poem by chloe young

i like sitting beside the window feeling tortured by the torrential rain, wishing that it was pounding at my surface, scratching away at my pores.

having bluegrass melodies sweeping up my ears, filling them with banjos and voices as cavernous as the grand canyon

and watching you laying on the carpet, your legs crossed, rolling a cigarette as if you were caressing skin,
being careful as if you were rolling my veins, controlling the blood flow to my heart,

making it swell to burst.