is always a tangled mess of clothes
and bedsheets, an unruly collection
of your possessions; wrinkled
boxers, loose pocket change, the occasional dirty sock.
is neat, painstakingly so,
all tidy hospital corners and taut
blankets – usually. It’s becoming routine
to loosen them hastily as we climb in.
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 soapstone castle you captured
in a game of chess, a lost guitar pick bought
that week you thought you’d learn for me, a song
lyric fondly scribbled on a crumpled scrap of newspaper
tucked between your 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.