The Vent

I lay in bed staring at the vent, thinking about you again and again and again.

Warm air blows onto my face; I cannot breathe, for the heat is too intense.

If this happens when thinking about you takes hold of my flesh, I must go now and find you.

All hot and bothered with no relief, I take a visit to the garden; the chill and the rain upon my face temporarily calm me.