Under the Sheets
Under the sheets, you love.
You breath soundly, sleep deeply, you
encompass emotions,
no longer the impression of togetherness.
Stitches that have been picked apart
by loneliness.
Cracked cement between two bricks.
100% eggshell Egyptian cotton sheets,
pulled tight across the mattress, wrinkle free
as the perfect child-like face of a
twenty four year old man,
not for sale.
The jar of sweets on the top shelf that a
desperate infant fails to reach,
but do they give in to the inaccessible?
Under the sheets, you speak.
Words, intermittent off your tongue as sunlight searing
through desolate trees.
I catch a few that please me, swallow them whole.
You rise and fall with me, two
leaves in an autumn breeze,
who knows if they’ll decorate the same pavement,
or if the path it leads to will match.
A song written by a foreign agenda that
I’ll never quite decode.
Your hand grips mine in accidental sleep.
I pretend you are awake.
My fingertips interlocked with gold,
they are so lucky, tucked into your palms,
clinched in the calm.
They squeeze back for dear life, dreading
the dawn; the ceremonial opening of the gift that
reminds me of the rarity that I hold,
One-off moments, cherish them as a rainbow at Christmas.
Under the sheets you are free
to truly be
with me.
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