Fever

 

 

The damn bed doesn’t fit anymore
but if you were here I’d still
be cooking, whipping resentment
into cream. Fingers wrap
around the mattress: there’s an old crust
in the corner, was it yours or mine?
Ruminating over leftovers, the black
and the blue handed to me,
trying to sleep on a stale bed
that was always too small, too tender.
The folds of the blanket you tore
apart still prickle at the seams I spent hours
mending with thin black thread.

 

 

 

 

 

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