This Unmade Bed

Covers gently draped

As if to trap beneath their form

Something of the fading the warmth

Of the tangled, slumbering limbs

From which I extricate myself

She always makes the bed when I go

The warmth that she preserved

Fled when lonelily disturbed

When I crawled inside and curled up

And I couldn’t bring it back

Lying in the inky blackness

This song began to twist through my head

I hope our words settle

I hope we don’t mean what we’ve said

And I hope that I’m not doomed to this unlovely, unmade bed

I finally return at the ending of the day

To sheets torn back from where I lay

And pillows where she always slept

From how I’d clutched them to my chest

An unmade bed to capture my unrest