How the thin sheets just hold her shape. The cold
side of the pillow, little hairs in crescents
write across the bed. I am alone
in morning, only Buddha hears my snore,
my self rolls in the sheets without another.
Most in need of love at simple dawn,
I burn for her. I wipe the sleep from eyes,
forget my dreams. To smell her when she is
still slumbering, I linger at her shoulder
careful to make a sound. Who made a bed
for one? The quiet sounds the TV makes
are all that fill the room. Give me the art
you are when day is breaking, give me skin
to taste and a warm body to behold.
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