You have your side’s tidyness,
My side’s still its usual mess.
If we swapped, I’d take time
To trace those crests and hollows
Where your resting shape resides,
Refill your empty cup of sorrows,
Folded clothes conformed
To your uncontested beauty,
Ready to be stored in drawers
Like confessions in a chapel,
Like reforming resurrections,
Routines diminish duty.
Middle night and middle storm,
I reached for where your milk was stored,
But darkly your side metamorphed
Before I realised, and with great design
The bed of life revolved once more,
Mechanics wheezed while agents yawned.
Now I’m trapped where blankets lied,
Transfixed by how I lived and died;
You wake, shower, prepare for work.
