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.