unwatered land
the bedsheet beside me remains unplowed despite the years
no creases nor folds turned like earth
warm and fertile with
conversations before sleep
above these plains of linen
washed, ironed, and perfumed
no clouds gather to hold
the wather shed
only the list of names wished for is longer
than nights and waiting
not even the sturdiest of weeds
can grow on
this vast unwatered land
yet my hands still grow towards
light, water and gravity
never learning to stay on their side of the bed
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