playing with prose

poetry, that is. before break i emailed lex, asking him what exactly prose poetry was. his response was about two paragraphs long, and ended with "that probably didn't help that much did it?" well, here's my attempt at some prose poetry. who knows if it is the real thing, but i like it.


1 am train

The first night in months that I crawled into bed without you, I found that I had forgotten how to sleep alone. I lay awake three hours past tired, still waiting for your steps on the stairs outside my window. Waiting for your almost quiet entry: the gentle clunk of the door closing, then the four steps to the couch, a crunch of bag and rustle of jacket, a sigh. The water glass filled in the kitchen, the flick of switches off, the one-minute-rhythm of a toothbrush before it lands on the counter; and finally, the grating push of a sticky bedroom door by careful fingers, not wanting to wake me up. I would roll over and pretend to peek from just-woken eyes and open my arms to welcome you into warmth, to my breast, your hair still clinging to the night's cold. But instead, I lay awake in an empty room; my only company the 1 am train whistle, and the weight of missing you.

b