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the rain is the back beat,

your vocals the dominating sound

over my keyboard alternating between rapid clatter and hesitant reproach.

a jingle of metal, from the dog running around, is as cheerful as any triangle could be.

your songs take shape,

as this poem rattles on.
these words aren’t as calculated as the timing you are using for the lyrics.


the creativity is flowing,

all throughout this room.

between the couches,

from your desk to mine.

television shut off between us (to keep out the invading influence).

Your side white,

my side blue,

the wall between striped blue and white.

the energy is contained,

each in our own little worlds of creativity,

but together in the sphere of the creative.