The Art of Making a Bed

By Jack Scholtes

Enclosed in a form so familiar, with someone new 

Not new like I haven’t met her, I feel like I’ve known her for a long time 

Beyond seeing her hand raise tall to speak about things I can’t relate to 

After just over a month, her bed felt like more of a home than I could ever live in 

 

My shoulder gave out the first night, and the night after 

My hand went numb from how I lay, but that was nothing to me 

Somehow, the first night I knew love, and I knew its name 

The first night I knew I would soon be captive by her grasp 

 

Each time I awake in that tower, that place of heaven 

I take those sheets that held us, I arrange them how she likes them, 

I fluff the pillows so she doesn’t lay on flat cloth, so her shoulders don’t give out 

Something I should tell her, from my lips, is that I’ll take that pain for her 

 

The stories she’s told others about me are ones that I wouldn’t imagine to be spoken 

I feel as though she speaks so highly of me, but she deserves much, much more 

My admiration for her will forever beat any feeling of doubt or second-guesses 

The trust I said I loaned her was not meant to be taken back. 

 

It feels like just yesterday, but also years ago, when I last laid next to her 

Looking at her face while she dozes off, and trying to imagine a more comfortable space 

I think for about five seconds, and five seconds go by and I give up, 

Looking back and ahead, 

I feel like we could dream of each other through everything, every day.