Waterlogged

Rainy Sunday, waterlogged. Seems the summer forgot this one. The flowers gorging themselves outside lay around like fat ladies on the green grass despairing.

I message you, send you two songs. I tell you that if you listen closely you can have the same Sunday.

There’s the smell of the rain on the windowsill, run your hand this way and you can feel the texture of the sheets on my nap-waiting bed, and, there, the sound of the newspaper pages trying to get comfortable on the floor.

Later, you write back to tell me it’s like that there too.