In that strange wasteland,
of both bright and dark,
where sleep holds on
and waking moves in,
I was frozen.
I could not remember when,
in my waking sleeping place,
I lost you.
You might be next to me,
the sheets tangled around you,
your long hair tousled,
resting still,
held gently by the arms of sleep.
But in fear I know
it might be empty there,
beside me,
if before this sleep I've had
is when you left me -
with cold sheets crumpled,
because there is only me,
and I forget to crawl into them.
You had taught me better,
you taught me to love the sheets.
I could move so slightly now,
ford the wasteland into a wakeful mind,
and brave the possible touch
to feel the fabric wrapped around me
to test. . .
to see. . .
Sheets?
Have you left me?
Are you beside me?
Which now, is the dream?
I do not know.
I dare not wake.
I hope to find myself
tucked inside
sheets.
