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 Glasses kept on the kitchen table

It is almost midnight

The water is cold, running from the faucet

I shiver, making the clothes on the hanger right.

The bed’s been made, ready to put me to sleep

Yet I keep reading the book in my hands

Seated on the sofa across from it

I ignore the lights from the outside land.

This place is crisp, filled with silence

And I feel myself in a syndrome 

Because this place is something I have

And this place is what I call home.