New Bed

Talking to you now feels like

lying in a new bed.

All sounds are brand new.

It is not that your words aren't cool breezes when you talk about everything except us,

but I am used to the chatter of the ceiling fan we spent our summers under.

And your smiles do sound of water-drops -

They negotiate a crooked path down the broken shelves of my ribcage,

but I miss the morning drizzle on my face

that woke me into ruddy activity;

Your smiles were rain-clouds then.

Your eyes still are blankets I hide under,

but they are in too many folds to afford me dreams.

I do not know how I managed to weave you into so many knots;

Your gaze used to rub all over me,

And I used to thaw into the sunshine.

I hold your eyelids to my chest now

and close my eyes,

but it's cold.

I cannot sleep like this.