'Unmade' by Allie Marini Batts

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I can’t wash the sheets, make the bed, or even fluff the pillows: if I do, you’ll be gone forever. The soft, lightly sour smell of your unwashed hair, sweaty skin and morning breath is delicately stitched into the fabric of the bedclothes. One wash and you’ll disappear. I snuggle down next to the hollow left in the mattress by your absent back, big-spooned against me in the twilight; drink deep of your smell, pray it lingers. If I’d known you would not come home again, I would have short-sheeted you with my limbs and kissed you back to sleep.

Comments

  1. Suzanne Conboy-Hill13 May 2013 at 12:18

    Oh gosh - a huge tragedy in a tiny space. Very well done.

    ReplyDelete

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