This hotel bed is a mile wide,
encased in sheets of white, a perfect pouffy comforter,
pillows of polyester down.
I stretch my limbs all the way out, but still can’t touch you.
Remember when we used to spoon and sleep
like two sardines, oiled and snug?
I would place my heart inside of yours
to feel my love, fan it open, raise some heat.
Over the years I grew to love you without trying,
like breath falling in and out, effortless as springtime rain.
Tonight we sleep above city lights
but tomorrow we shall
tangle in tangerine flannel
with hodge podge pillows heaped about.
In a bed made of twisted cedar limbs.
I will put my head on your left shoulder.
(That place that belongs to only me.)
We will whisper absurdities.
Laugh and sigh and settle in.
Then I’ll shut the light.
Give you my back for the night.
Just the right amount
of closeness
and space between.
©2015 Mariénne Kreitlow