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I left my window open again,
To be chilled by the fruitlessness of this

Self-indulgent gesture,
This bitter conjecture
Of mine (because, you know me too well),
And you'll laugh at me later
Because I think, to you, my impatience will never be


You'll say, "It's not like I lied!"
And you'll turn to defensive
(Which can be offensive)
And pensievely drill down my argument

With piercing, sonic-screwdriver eyes.


And helpless again, I'll giggle it over,
Truly forgiving
Of course, forgiven --
(It's you after all), and you are mostly my all,
And I'll be content with the fact that you'll want me again,
Maybe soon --


And until then, I'll have the

Moon to blow through my window
And onto this page --
The chilling moon, my muse:
So like the pale arcs of your fingers
As they scribble your notes.
I can only hope --
And shiver in the meantime --
Head by my window,
In my own bed


(For once).