“Can’t you come to
bed?”
my lover asks,
where she is nestled
among the quilts.
I stand at my
mirror,
brushing out my
hair,
no sleep crossing my
eyes.
“I will, I will,” I
say.
But I don’t.
I move softly
through the room,
straightening books
on a shelf,
tracing the outline
of a photograph
with one fingertip.
The news comes on
the TV,
and goes off.
My lover sleeps now,
curled on her side
like a child.
I stop to stroke her
hair.
I make tea in the
quiet kitchen.
No comments:
Post a Comment