I’ve made my bed. The sheets are fresh and white,
with crisp corners tucked in safe and tight.
Now all I need is you. Come and lay on them.
I crave your swerves and harsh stops,
I crave your dashes and jagged edges,
the sharpened point I grip
pledges my oath,
spilling you from the tip--
only when I can muster it.
The phrase goes, you fail me,
but really it’s me that fails you.
I mean, You’re inside Me,
not the other way around.
When I can't speak
it's because I'm thinking
too hard about what I
could say.
I make my bed
but there's too much
room for you to lay.
What if I write wrong?
I'm not often strong
enough to risk it.
Sometimes I do it right.
Sometimes my sheets turn scripture.
(Sometimes I can write.)
Until then, my bed awaits hue.
I ponder with my pen.
Mar 24, 2021
Mar 24, 2021 at 3:36 PM UTC
I’ve made my bed. The sheets are fresh and white,
with crisp corners tucked in safe and tight.
Now all I need is you. Come and lay on them.
I crave your swerves and harsh stops,
I crave your dashes and jagged edges,
the sharpened point I grip
pledges my oath,
spilling you from the tip--
only when I can muster it.
The phrase goes, you fail me,
but really it’s me that fails you.
I mean, You’re inside Me,
not the other way around.
When I can't speak
it's because I'm thinking
too hard about what I
could say.
I make my bed
but there's too much
room for you to lay.
What if I write wrong?
I'm not often strong
enough to risk it.
Sometimes I do it right.
Sometimes my sheets turn scripture.
(Sometimes I can write.)
Until then, my bed awaits hue.
I ponder with my pen.
Request permission to use this poem