©We Share A Bed
Mimi Wolske
All
Rights Reserved
I'm a fugitive from the prison of my
beliefs.
We share a bed... Your bed.
That premiere day there, I should have
heeded
the flashing voices in my head
that told me I'd be sleeping with a
devil.
Why is it the taste of you lingers on my
lips, in my mouth, in my memory?
Tentative, hypnotic fingers touch my
scars,
the ones I threw out of my second-floor
bubble life;
the ones so horrible that I forgot them,
until I close my eyes, and then they
play in my sleep.
Stroking them,
mapping them affectionately,
you search for
reveries... But I'd squeezed them
—like a
whitehead —and they'd all died.
I call you my man of few words; do you know
why?
Because actions speak louder than words
and your actions are loud.
We share a bed... My bed.
It's more than showers and sex
with me and my clipped wings and
cock-eyed halo.
I only need look into your eyes
to see years of scars and recent lies
and a grain of salt.
I've memorized the way you breathe
—active and at rest.
We share a bed... Of our own making,
with military corners
that are wrestled away from their hold,
that release the secrets we all try to
hide,
that are bound by lovers
who look past imperfections,
without exception or condition;
who become more on a well-worn,
seven-year mattress.
