Poem No. 34
- mollycatlos
- 6 days ago
- 1 min read
It’s the next morning.
We attempt to make your bed.
The blankets lap the mattress
Like waves on the beach,
Clasping their water hands
Against the sheets,
Trying to dig their shell nails in
In refusal to wake up.
They struggle against the cotton
And the wool
And the warmth.
The bed does not want to be made.
It wants you to pull me back into its
Ocean of sheets
And drown in the sensual chaos
Of an unmade bed.
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