of you not being here with me
in this sea of chocolate,
a comforter that does not
comfort me in this
moment, the TV news anchor
provide back up noise
to the chair, empty
from when you sat and
looked over the backyard, green
with envy that you were
here with me
I am alone, and lonely
these are not always the same--
they rarely are the same
but today, no gentle touch
no tender press to bless
my brown skin lying up
against this brown cover
and I miss the heavy breathing
of your sleep, the way you
sprawl across a bed
the way you wrap yourself
mummy like and remain
available too--how do you
do that?
I am slow to rise from it
the not-comfort of the bed
to the not-comfort of hot tea
mint infused prayers
busy days brushed up
against busier ones
I am not ready for the
shower heat, the scrubbing
sound of teeth cleaning
the foot against wooden floor
my hand on faucet
the crank of car
the busyness of lonely
© Valerie Bridgeman
January 23, 2013
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