Hinges

I wasn't sure I wanted to post this poem so late at night, as most people who read this will read this in the morning anyway, but I was itching to post it all day so I'm doing it.

This poem differs from the last two posts in the sense that this one is less universal in meaning and intent, and more specific to a time in my life. That's all I'll say about that.

I hope you enjoy it.

love.

PS. I'm really looking forward to next week's post.

--

Hinges

That twin-sized bed never was big enough for both of us.

The doorway was a picture frame,

and you bit your lip and this was how I would remember you.

My shirt draped over your limbs,

a sheet on a sapling,

filling me with longing but knowing

it was too big. That was the point. I needed to brush my teeth;

bristles on enamel, spit, rinse.

-

I returned and you were face down, sheets pulled back just enough to whet my eyes. The two of us in bed was like a pair of sticks whose cores never touched, but were twisted enough within one another’s branches to merit the title of tangled.

Every four breaths, our bodies would, together, rise and fall.

My shirt was too big and my bed was too small.