There is something strange about the texture of a bedspread.
It twists and crinkles like it’s living, but it is dead.
Where is the time where our bodies can be wed?
With the whisper of age-old vows,
The promises of sometimes and here-and-nows
Erase the seeds of nagging doubt.
I can still hear your voice saying, I love you.
I turn to the pillow and murmur, I love you too.
Could it be true,
That my heart aches so much that you can feel its bruise?
My bed is solid, my pillows are solid,
But they have no ability to be a substitute.
Your body pulses with life and love and longing,
And it would be so silky under my fingers, if I was there to hold you.
My fingertips imagine your heart beating a subtle message.
I want you. Do you want me too?
When the chaos of day leaves,
Night folds around us like a black bedspread.
In our beds, we are all together, far apart, and hopelessly alone.
Life continues on as though our souls are joined.
Horns outside are beeping,
The crickets are creeping,
But neither of us are sleeping.