White Cotton

I woke up and raised my white anthropology quilt over my body and face. The purpose being to sleep longer, but it’s impossible to do such a thing when the sun light is so heavy.

 I woke up to the sun blinding my swollen eyes through my own blinds that are the color of a light skinned camel.

I wish I could form an exact replica in the readers mind of what the sun looks like through my white blanket. It’s powerful in its’ neutrality, gestures toward the skin and softness to each hair on my body.Hairs lying flat and not standing tall at all. When you’re wearing just underwear the skin reacts to anything the same way it does against cold metal.

 It’s like being in that idea of a white room. Sitting there, waiting patiently, for something to wake your unsettled form of relaxation. It’s strengthening your ability of hearing just silence and seeing the complexity of the color white.

 There’s an intimate connection you create when you’re not only looking at skin against skin but skin against linens.

_ _ _ _

Loose hairs always seem to find their way underneath your pillow, 

your six pillows,

or in your bedside table lamp made of twigs.

You missed me when you found that hair scattered across those cotton grey sheets.

_ _ _ _

I close my eyes.

Imagining what a bed is, completely full.

I know where your body would be placed,

I know the positions you’d be in,

arms crossed or folded over me, usually crossed or pressed up against the cold wall,

I know when you get too hot from my heat,

one thousand degrees,

and laying here half full,

I can feel these thin sheets like nothing else.

A cold pillow in between my legs, not worrying on having to flip it for either side is just enough.

Pressed down through the night but still there as comfort and support for my own weight of thinking.

I am curious of less thread here.

Instead of draping over my body in whole white stitches,

I know more for your rough skin draped across my stomach, 

Than for a single layer of sheet with no blood line.

_ _ _ _

Your neck has small divets of old freckles, some new.

And your arms are textured the same,

but somehow I am still able to know the skin underneath and it’s so soft.

Or when you hold onto my face and your hands take over my whole head because of their size,

 wishing your hand was on my head tonight. 

Seeming a space away,

seams too simple.

I drape the sleeve of your old sweatshirt across my chest and hold onto the hood. 

_ _ _ _

Searching through the suns form of the color white,

 I come across my skin layered on top of another white,


Just staring at my skin and thinking of feeling,

like I’m lying by myself in between two white cotton sheets.


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