Cursive

Outside, foreplay of rain clouds. Inside, you write in your diary--probably about the argument we've been having on and off all morning. Little pen, never stops. Nothing omitted, everything rewritten. Shared past becomes rope, stretches necks. We don't fight; we don't lose. Shorthands present you. I am exposed. It's not personal, you say, it's art. It's defence, I say. I'll put on my clothes.