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Sundays with Michael
I hold my breath and count to ten, I stand and sit, then stand again. I cross and then uncross my legs, the planes are flying overhead. The dial turns with every twist, around the watch, around his wrist. Resting there with pen in hand, who could ever understand? The way he writes of all I dream, things kind yet cruel and in-between, where underneath those twisted trees, a pretty girl fallen to her knees. Who could know the world we’ve spun? I shrug my shoulders and hold my tongue. I hold my breath and count to ten, I stand and sit, then stand again.