My life, my unmade bed.
Comfortable and incomplete.
With blanket half-hung.
And sheets speechless in white cotton mouth.
Like newsprint waiting to meet the ink,
Storylines keep me captive in the “wanna-be” writer’s head.
My life is waiting for words unwritten,
A lull, a pause in conversation,
And the bed becomes a part of me.
I am wrapped in the embrace of the one I love.
I am tucked safely in between.
I am climbing onto the rectangular pyre of love-making.
I am becoming an object participating in the motion of sleep.
I am taking up residence in the world of dreams.
I am waking up.
I am putting feet beneath this body of mine.
I am beginning again.
Bed unmade, still.
Left like a crime scene,
A still shot, frozen in former motion
Waiting for my return.
