Friday, 19 April 2013
'Unmade' by Allie Marini Batts
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.
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Oh gosh - a huge tragedy in a tiny space. Very well done.
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