The sheets aren’t tangled anymore; they stay
like they’re supposed to. You would say that
that’s a bright side, as in
look on the bright side. And while it’s true –
since you’ve left the bed has needed
much less straightening
– I’m colder now than when
turning over meant bumping into your heat,
warmth radiating an inch away from your skin. Even
being under the same sheet began to burn,
like sitting on the bricks beside a fireplace
in winter. When the logs are burning blue in places
and you have to sweep popping sparks back in –
there’s a chance you might catch fire
but it feels too right to move – sleeping next to you
was like that.
I’m falling in the rhythm of not waking up early
to make tea with milk – no sugar, thanks –
alongside my black coffee,
but still haven’t gotten used
to your not being here to tease me
about bitter, caffeinated kisses. Now
the sheets stay my temperature.
I find all the blankets
in roughly the same places in the mornings.
While you were here, the bed stayed messy. Your things filled
the whole room. When you took them
I found the patterns in the carpet. The change
that once slipped from your pockets stayed where it had fallen,
reminded me of you.
The drafting continues.
I’ve been a complete slacker on posting lately- my only reasonable excuse is that this year is hectic and homework-filled. Also, I am entirely clueless about what to write in the way of prose.