Smothered over your sheets naked and anxious,

                      in your bedroom waiting for your presence.

But until then I will blankly wonder why.

Why is it that imprints left from ceiling paint

make up countless shapes and animals.

         There is a piece of mattress uncovered,

each stitch in the ancient fabric weaved.

Unfeigned wild peonies and vines.

Still silence- but only for a moment.

Now beside me as it poured outside.

I collapsed into your arms and you said,

If the Earth can break down like this, I could.

That morning my bones felt the weight of yours.

I am that impotent mattress poking through.