I Use to Wake Up next to You

I Use to Wake Up next to You

We use to share a bed,

a bed of white sheets, next

to our white walls, and I would

wake up next to you, breathing softly

through your mouth, and I would look

at your porcelain back and blonde

hair and wonder how I got there.

We use to share a bed,

and some nights I would wake up

on top of you, you smelling of soap

and cinnamon, probably from that

shampoo, and I would put my nose in

your armpit and massage my nose on your

slight stubble and breathe you in, deeply.

We use to share a bed,

but I shared that bed with others

sometimes, cheap romps that reeked

of wine and cigarettes, out of pure

self-hatred, nothing more, and I would have

to bleach the sheets and hate myself more

for never being able to make them white again.

We use to share a bed,

a bed you called your mother on and

cried when you found I had lied and I had

no response or explanation for and I sat

there with the crux of your unhappiness

and the stress of your schooling and the

overall disgust you had for me and us and

this fucking house weighing in on my temples.

We use to share a bed,

but it became cold and false and

we barely spoke and rarely acknowledged

each other’s building paranoia and anger

until I got drunk that one night and told you

that you should fly away, from me, like some

lost sparrow who mistook the swamp for the beach.

We use to share a bed,

but that was long ago.