There is always the danger of a bed. Of soft lamp-lit darkness and the sweet rustle of slippers as I steal away from you for a smoke. You would be asleep. Thick clouds would have already defeated the moon and sky.
Later, after my cigarette gives up and dies, a brief red star tossed into the night, I would return inside, the hot air thick with silence muted only by the rhythm of your breathing. Sweat playing with my skin.
I would sit at the edge of the bed, reach for my pen and notebook, write. I would wrap my wet wrist with one angle of the bed sheet to keep the paper dry.
You would wake up and find me awake but lost in dreams, would tug gently at the corner of the sheet that held my hand. You would complain that you never see my eyes when I write, my wayward hair tumbling down my brows.
In the morning, it would rain.