cushions

I would like to think
it never ends that way,
what falls down must break.

I condemn this pronouncement.
Just see the motes gliding back
on my bed this morning, golden

and sincere. Say, if I will fold
this blanket into a diamond tonight,
would I be spared from such claim?

Geometries are the only means
to make shape out of all this.
Consider the cushion and its stuffing.

All I want is something true.
No breaking. Yet this is what you said:
“I don’t sway that way.”

You went beyond the three quiet words
I longed for. Even the gesture of a smile.
Restraint does slip from your hands.

Or this time, from your lips. Have
faith, something hair strands hold,
clinging on damp pillowcases.

I know I have rested fairly
to last me days when the sun
seems shrouded with too much clouds;

even a stab at my wakefulness
would bear no sting more severe
than the bite of an ant.

But I guess I recalled too much forgetting,
walked on the same street again,
and slept a little too much.

And this is why I feel anger
for all the beds we have lounged upon.
There is not enough burden

that could leave a dent on them
for us to understand how heavy
the aches we both carry.