by Olivia Nathan
Straining to hear the rain
from this cold bed,
beneath an electric blanket that’s not plugged in.
Was today about love or leaves?
I couldn’t tell.
Unraveling the braids in my hair
brought me closer to the lapping water on the yachts.
And the growing, falling
laughter from his gray suit jacket mouth.
Swear I hear it from this damp bed,
but not the rain.
(Photo courtesy of the writer herself)
Olivia Nathan is a junior at Barnard and an opinion editor for Barnard Bite.