She always left <br />the bed unmade, <br /> <br />left the sheets and covers <br />pushed back, <br /> <br />let in some air, <br />let the smells of night <br /> <br />and making love depart. <br />And there was <br /> <br />the occasional <br />making of love, <br /> <br />the now and then <br />exchange of fluids, <br /> <br />the kisses on flesh, <br />the fingerings, <br /> <br />the sighs and yeses, <br />the catching <br /> <br />of moonlight <br />through uncurtained <br /> <br />windows. <br />She left the bed <br /> <br />unmade like some <br />symbolic gesture; <br /> <br />a sign of this <br />is how it is <br /> <br />with me <br />statement. <br /> <br />Men and women <br />have wrestled <br /> <br />with love <br />and doubts here, <br /> <br />she seemed <br />to want to say. <br /> <br />Two indented pillows <br />on either side <br /> <br />of the bed, <br />two holders <br /> <br />of the frail <br />human head. <br /> <br />She left <br />the unmade bed <br /> <br />with stains and smells <br />and memories <br /> <br />soaked in <br />as each particle <br /> <br />of cloth held <br />and branded <br /> <br />the human state <br />of sin.<br /><br />Terry Collett<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/unmade-bed-2/
