Night of the Flowered Sheets
There is the bed with the sheets thrown back
And every time I pass by the bed I am longing,
The sweet scent of starch and summer.
I could spend the day in those sheets
Turning over onto my belly and then up on my back
Breathing in the silence of the morning
Then the evening
Running my hand over the edge of my hip
Remembering the feel of an earlobe
Each minute slows to the breath of a spider
There is no sound
Languid caress of sheet on skin,
Memories pass over and under the soft ,filtered light.
I feel nothing here just the slow
Sensual beat of hours passing
And no one knowing where I am.