They bounce into their rooms
with their black brassieres—
ripping curtains
and pulling me away
from lonesomeness.
They flop on their beds,
wrestled within quilts,
tapping their phones.
Nothing connects us,
binds or intertwines us,
except that we both
watch out the window
for a flash of rain.
I turn off the light that glares
and loftily pray for a fire drill.
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