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Monday, 27 June 2011


You are all asleep.  The streets are quiet.  Streetlights cast a yellow haze across the ghost city.  This is when I come out.

You have never met me, and you don’t know to thank me.  Because to you, I don’t exist.  I know you.  You don’t know me.

From my home, I watch you in the mornings, open your curtains and then later, emerge from your home and follow you to the station.  I note every piece of clothing, everything you hold, from newspapers to fruit to bags.  I know what you ate last night, because I have been in your garbage.

I wait for your return by train and follow you back.  Sometimes I know you feel like you are being watched.  You are.  By a friend.

They will never bother you.  No-one will violate your home.  You are safe.  I keep you safe.  You stole my heart with the chicken carcass at Christmas.

Your bedroom light shuts off.  I sit on your wall and preen my red brush and growl at anything that moves near to your door.  Your protective renard.

(todays virtual writers title was "Heart")

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