Unmade


So they sit, fitted as sheets crease the unmade bed.
Heads and hands clasped, grasping a messy love. Kind of crammed,
ramshackled together. Feather pillows stack the floor,
doorway dust motes mute the day.
So they stay. The faded sheets frayed skeins stained by pet names
and dogged breaths. Their heft left the mattress bruised. Unused notes on the table bedside.

Her side. A small verse of poetry, a coterie
of Hallmark themes, rhyme schemes behind his back
hardback plots against him, brim with unmeant sentiment kitsch as the kitchen curtains.
Certain, he has nothing to tell you, you do not know. Knowing he is not new
and you are too glut-full of breaths, tests, analysed fights
now as polite as the quiet that goes on tiptoes to turn off the lights.

A grip, fingertip stitched itching the word-worn scabs of small jabs.
She is not what he’d dreamed. And it seems hard now to see, in me, what he saw.
Raw husk hands cupped, shucked of colour, each bleached cheek against cheek
they lean, beams of hard wood and soft bone. Home. Now sewn, elsewhere. Not near this fault line signed by the feathered quills from the weathered pillows.

So it goes, making beds, plans, mistakes makes up, makes love, makes do.
Who is this now? How are they here on their bed unmade, soft-laid heads weathered and small.
Fall hard into the dusty air, now hardly there
At all.

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