This is how it will be. Her house will smell of fresh flowers. She will have design magazines to read. Oysters and champagne chill in her fridge. Bach plays in the background. Everything has a place. But right now, at the moment, her house lives. Loudly sometimes. But always alive.
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Pounding pavements
thumping hearts
lycra cladded
through insulated glass
she watches, sweating
building up
muscles twitching,
dreaming, tripping,
flashing lamplights,
dwindling day,
joggers sleep
but she lies,
largely
unmoved
awake.
Next day,
she muddies
her trainers
in the garden,
returns indoors,
refills her bottle
and sits at the
window, waiting.
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