The wind rips the building,
grips the stone,
batters the windows with rain

and in here pools of placid light
lie calm on the veneer,
and I sit, ear-pensive, trained on storm,

my gaze straying to the purple
rucksack propped against the wall,
a sturdy presence, dark and male

that makes me feel small, fragile,
but still here,
and as I stare

all weight disappears
and that purple object -
half-full of clothes -

waits, attests to the fact
that on Thursday
you come back.
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