The Hexacoto

Bed

I woke up and found that I have wet my bed
with tears that I cried into cupped hands
that slowly seeped through my fingers
because I forgot what you looked like.

A pile of clean laundry lies on one side of the bed
because I can pretend that you are there
as you used to enjoy jumping on top of it
when it is fresh out of the dryer.

Who will help me put the covers on the comforter?

I still sleep on my side of the bed
with my head faced away from the middle
I still try not to snore when I sleep
so as not to disturb your ghost.

—

Paper

I had to put pen to paper
my heart willed me so.
But when the nib came down to scrawl
my hand began to waver.

There was no way I could get the soul
of this yawning desire
with merely just the ebb of ink
as my finger rolls.

I cast away the pointless tool
and looked within the fount
where words did not flow but tears did
until the page was full.

The sheet was tender, wet
and slowly began to dry
to a wrinkly prune, like fingers
that’s sat in a bath too long.
And as the sun took more tears away
the paper began to stiffen
to a hard crackling that threatens to snap;
Exactly what I wanted to write.