I have fallen asleep for 8 years – more or less;
I cannot remember the exact
pattern of nights from a new excitement
to an occasional visit to a regular date to
an every night – on your chest.
I drifted off,
awash on your breaths and
with the silk of your hair
like a sail overhead.
Our sheets went from silk to cotton
from black to white
(it bleaches) –
the stains from sex alone
to wine spilt in long conversation
to spit-up and drool after child nightmares.
Now it is myself in this bed.
There are some advantages.
I lie crosswise, taking up all the space,
the pillows are all the sort I like
and the duvet surrounds me just
as I arrange it.
But it seems my heart –
the beating, not the broken –
waits for your chest.
For each night I move slowly up
and over those pillows –
the ones I chose –
until I lie on them as though
they were your chest.
But when I wake, my neck is sore,
my head pressed up against
the headboard and I feel anew its cold.
So like the stone you erected
(You being San,
I should insert an erection joke here.)