I felt like a backpacker that night.
I think it was the katydids.
At home it’s the frogs,
all shouting over each other, but somehow
finding a rhythm.

But here,
a pulse presses into me in my sleep
and I roll over to face the seething embers.
I know I’ve drawn things out with X,
but this is what narcissism means to me:
stoking the embers each time.

Tonight I am a backpacker
on the west side of a mountain.
Having slept through the sunset,
now I’m lying awake—
sleepless and small—
as ants find their way across my skin.

If they’re not sleeping, they must be working—
long jaunts between brief naps—
while the queen sleeps.

When I’m home,
I’ll close my windows and,
drown these embers in dry reds—
shiraz and merlot—
and sleep like the queen for once.

I’ve spent five nights this week
unmade and shivering.
Where have you been sleeping?
Have you found another,
softer and younger than me?

Your imprint is fading and
I miss your sweet weight upon me.
I’ve laid under you through innumerable nights—
you tossing and turning.
Laid under you each night because I have
nothing else to offer.

Will you make me look good again—
neat, warm and inviting?
I guess I’ll become a sleepless mattress,
a dusty mattress in a quiet room
waiting for you to come back to me.
Or will you put me out
with a sign that says I’m free?

My eyes are drawn toward your toes
as frequently as lover’s eyes
do meet and tie their souls in knots.

Your toes that grasp and stretch and lift
you up to reach the chocolate chips
you keep behind the chia seeds.

Your toes that press and push and dig
into dirt and earth then sheets at 3
when warm air beckons— take a nap

my eyes are drawn toward your toes
and glide over freckled skin that makes
me scramble after memories,

past parted lips and perfect cheeks
to lurid pools of cerulean
that find us back in bed by noon.