This is my side of
the bed. I have
lain here my whole
life. I daren’t
cross the threshold
to the other
side, which remains
spotless, impressionless,
free of wrinkles
and other signs
of life.
I lie like the lifeguard
tells you to lie in
the waterslide:
feet crossed at the ankles,
arms across
the chest.
I lie in perfect
coffin etiquette,
shaping myself within
intangible confines,
cozy and secure.
I have lain here my whole life,
and in my dreams
you are next to me—
I have prepared this space
for you
my whole
life
and I am waiting
patiently
for a sign
of
life.
I am waiting
for the sheets
to wrinkle,
and a mass
to take shape,
and the mattress
to indent,
and the pillow
to sigh—
I am waiting
for cold feet
to shock mine,
I am waiting
for strong legs
to ensconce mine,
I am waiting
for a torso
to touch mine,
I am waiting
for an arm
beneath my neck,
a hand on my
cheek,
I am waiting for warm breath
on my face,
and the silhouette of a face
to taunt me in
the shadows—
I am patiently waiting
for the day
I cross
the threshold
into occupied
space.
