ON BED
The bed is a raft
sailing the dusk of our forgetting—
sheets tangled like seaweed,
pillow a drowned moon.
Your hair left
a constellation on the linen.
I mapped it once
with my fingertips,
naming each knot:
longing, remorse,
the joke we never laughed at
but carried in silence
like a second spine.
Outside, the wind insists
on turning pages of a book
I meant to finish—
the one where two people
kiss in the middle
of a war,
then forget why
they were ever afraid.
This mattress
knows more of us
than any poem
I could write.
It does not judge.
It only sags
in the exact place
where I still
dream
of your hands.
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