Is it strange that being alone in bed is such a relief?

Weight lifted when empty sheets wait.

The clock just mine to watch and set

The light just mine to kill.

I want to be selfish this time and hold solitude as my own.

I know these pages are tired

And yawn in quilt

mother fingers working squares to shield me in heat.

Perhaps I neglect them with my scribblings

Perhaps it is not my language.

We sleep together nonetheless.

 

By Esme Garlake

 


Header image by Billy Wilson

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