Linens

She was so beautiful against the shape of the bed...

She was so beautiful with her colors against the lightness of the linens.

Quiet sweet warmth of her arms...the way her body looked beneath the landscape of the sheets.

Her head upon pillows...the square of the sheet framing her like an art...moving...contrast...the indention of her upon the forgiveness of the pillow mirroring exactly like how she dented my heart.

Her walk to the linens was cat-like...slow, deliberate...stalking. Her outline a familiar frame, she rose above and upon me like a moon-rise...a comfort, familiar beauty.

The destruction of a carefully appointed bed, linens tucked neatly and stretched firmly across the landscape of the mattress, neatly pressed and corners perfect...with one hand she pulled back the sheets and exposed the place for me to fall...

To tumble...

together...

Paint our colors across the white linens...

perhaps the slight spill of wine...a claret color...or a darker version due to bourbon...or tiny sand-like pellets of salt from tequila...

the linens were a beachfront...
a poolside...
a cabana...
a snowfall...

against a pale palette we painted our summer and our fall...our bodies as brush strokes...

And when she departed I was left with the linens...askew...disrupted...smelling of her and her presence...her lotions and scents...and I would fall back upon them and pull them into me like I was clutching her even when I wasn't.