Shifting

I trace my fingers on the windowsill…
picking up dust in patches.
Feeling the clock trickle backwards to the
tick
tick
tock
Of silent heartbeats.

The sunlight sighs onto rough floorboards,
throwing the walls into shadow.
Rolling peaceful, with a tinge of blue.

The bedsprings creak.
Splitting the almost silence with their complaints.
They quiet when sternly reprimanded,
their chattered protests settle softly in the background.

I can feel the air move.
It twitches like a wet dog
and noses your palm.
Slightly damp and soft around the edges.

I don’t come here often…
wandering in occasionally when I’ve no place else to go,
Glancing at the furnishings.
Noting the cobwebs taking shelter in the corners
Spinning sentimental conversations in their restless turning.

There is a waiting here,
A momentary stillness…
When the sun catches up to the moon,
And the *tag*!
“You’re it!”
That sends the stars off…
To hide and be seeked once more.