Days in Bed Not Napping

I’ve been staring at a portrait;

my teenage self smizing

making lengthy eye contact with me.

Self assured somehow,

in spite of everything.

I marvel at that now that it’s 6 pm

and I haven’t left this bed.

I’m conjuring pineapple shots

whip cream fights in moonlit vineyards

the melodies of nineties boy bands.

Babies and rocking chairs,

sex on swing sets,

kissing for hours

legs pumping and sweat beads forming.

Scratches from brick walls a little

disparate from a blanket of rose petals.

Alcohol containing far too much sugar

for anyone to feel good the next day.

No such thing as a hangover.

Certainly not ones following emotions.

Wordlessly my psyche is talking,

becoming a story teller of earlier activities selected to keep me out of beds.

No imagination for a day in between sheets.

Innuendo makes sense here,

padding the sharp edges of intimacy.

even if it’s with myself.

Robo calls announcing school tardies

to voicemails playing while dinner is cooking.

Summer blue walls

the same color in any season.

her mood?

volatile.

singleminded.

tenuous.

Wrists whispering, what were you saying

to airwaves dusty from almost use,

similar to overuse

in every way but one.

sound.

silly maybe,

that such intensity reads as mild

to me now.

recklessness

folded between photo album covers

that read,

high school.