There is a certain comfort to be found
in the wrinkled sheets of a well-worn bed.
It’s like the cotton,
threaded under an Egyptian sun
and loved by my fingertips,
has been imbued with sunlight
and the motes of dust made visible by it.
And when I find myself anchored by the weight of living,
there is always my bed,
surrounding my body with its body,
a cocooning mattress and its metal skeleton.
Its skin against my skin—
cloud wisps and warm water.
I can take solace in my scent
and the husk and spice of those
that have laid their body against my body
above the skeleton of my bed.
And in between the quiet
of the molecules floating within my walls,
I can still hear whispers of whispers,
the secrets between my sheets.
The stars that twinkle are beautiful,
like the smell of almond dust between the wrinkles of its skin and mine,
or that time you surprised me with a McDouble when I was drunk
because you knew I’d get hungry.
These are the words I never said:
“I miss you”
“I like you”
“Let’s get dinner this Thursday”
“I loved you”
But even the Grand Canyon doesn’t seem so grand,
when you are given the opportunity to slow dance with Orion.
The stars still remember the dinosaurs
and the supernovas that created this universe.
but the stars that twinkle are dead.