Your Bed

by Amy Olivieri

I donated your bed today

the thought of someone else in it

cozy

feets twitching

sleep-chasing birds on the beach

made me stop crying.

It will never smell like you again

I washed it three times

and that just about killed me.

I can smell you when I close my eyes, though

feeling us

curled up on the couch

my face pressed into your neck as deep as it will go.

The last time we lay there, on the couch

you lifted your eyes and

I could tell

part of you was already somewhere else

somewhere better, I hope with all my heart.

((But where could be better than with me))

It's too heavy

that place where my heart is

I can't walk.

I don't know if it will always be this crushing

but right now is unbearable

inhumane.

There is nothing I wouldn't give

to have you back in a bed

that smells like you

cozy

feets twitching

sleep-chasing birds on the beach.