is always a mess of clothes and bedsheets,
a tangled mass of your possessions; wrinkled
boxers, loose pocket change, the occasional dirty sock.
is neat, if only at night.
Sometimes made during the day, but rarely,
only re-tucked hastily before I – or we – climb in once more.
Making the bed
is usually my job, not because you ask me to,
but because the unmade, crumpled bedclothes
drive me crazy, make me want to tuck them in nicely, neatly.
I find pieces of myself
mixed up in the fabric of your sheets.
There’s a castle you captured
in a game of chess, a song lyric fondly scribbled
on a crumpled scrap of newspaper
I find tucked between the mattress and the box springs.
Unmake the beds, remake ourselves.
Let all the chaotic imperfections shine through
the overturned, pulled-out-of-place
sheets, comforters, blankets, pillows…
There’s no us in a neatly tucked bed.
We can only be found in the chaos.