Poem No. 34

mollycatlos
Nov 7, 2025
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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