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.
Wrists whispering, what were you saying
to airwaves dusty from almost use,
similar to overuse
in every way but one.
that such intensity reads as mild
to me now.
folded between photo album covers