i stir at dawn, waking in the middle of my bed,

sinking in a canyon crafted of pillows.

​

my lover, on my left, sleeps soundly,

likely dreaming of world peace, or of me.

 

his breathing, continual, consistent sighs,

lips parted & shaped so perfectly, air

 

easing in & out of his mouth that speaks

only lovely words into my mind, ones of hopes

 

& dreams fulfilled & faith restored & 

futures with a fluffy dog, childless, 

 

not because he thinks i’d be a bad mother,

but because he praises me when i am selfish

 

for my body & my time & our love & our

cravings to live & write & lie.

 

these days, i must be quieter to write. 

i sit on benches, thinking of my past love,

 

mulling over false promises, flawed reasoning,

& seemingly inconsolable sehnsucht, 

 

but see all stones overturned, so i

gaze at calloused toes, spiderwebs

 

linking blades of grass above my feet,

the sun refracting its light between

 

iridescent, fragile, silk strands, 

wondering if spiders actually want to

 

be mothers, if i was made to be happy,

& what you’re supposed to

 

talk about when you already have

everything you’ve ever wanted.