**Work in Progress**
I'm writing a lot again. I wanted to toss this little bit of verse out, I'm trying to expand on this one but I need some thoughts/comments/criticisms/questions/concerns/anything.
Sometimes in autumn,
we didn't go to school
in the late afternoons at that old house.
The dusky, fine orange mist of a dying day
barely brushed the curtains
around a peeled frame ,
curling out towards the sheets
where we lay, quiet but for sighs, and that house was at peace.
The music would trickle
down the hall from another room, a small radio,
some protest song we probably swore by.
The sun would heat my chest, and your back
and the backs of your legs,
and our skin caught as it brushed
and cooled down. When we were cold from
the night air, you left.
Sometimes in autumn,
we didn't go to school
in the late afternoons at that old house.
The dusky, fine orange mist of a dying day
barely brushed the curtains
around a peeled frame ,
curling out towards the sheets
where we lay, quiet but for sighs, and that house was at peace.
The music would trickle
down the hall from another room, a small radio,
some protest song we probably swore by.
The sun would heat my chest, and your back
and the backs of your legs,
and our skin caught as it brushed
and cooled down. When we were cold from
the night air, you left.