Hidden away above two thin staircasesa bed, a desk, and bookshelf,a writer’s paradisethe rain would fall and setits cadence to my thoughtsthe old radiator pumped hot breathforcing my window to be cracked a pinchand there each night I would fall asleepin a melody of cold and hot—wrapped up safe in all my ghosts.  xx Atticus@atticuspoetrywww.atticuspoetry.com