I’ve been telling people about my short story.
The lovers meeting in the middle of their days.
One: writes from the dust until morning.
All night in the surface — wood.
Neck, turning over leaves in hands, lead scratching type through their screen
When the lids of night begin to lighten, she turns on the kettle and returns to the lover. In their bed beyond the desk.
She lifts her from sleep, picking her body up from her dream.
Making love to her, awake.
She resumes her — taken, shape.
Taking her place in their unconscious address, she at the desk, frees the hot water and writes her way through to their afternoon.
Meeting in the middle