As I ran to your bedside,
With its impervious white comforter
And air-chilled grey pillows,
I wanted to stay there forever,
And watch its sheets crease,
Its blankets bend and fold
Or perhaps lie flat, untouched,
Breathe in that freshly-laundered vapor
Then wait for earthier smells,
See it unmade, unkempt, a chaos,
Then walk in and find it like new,
Touch it and feel a faint warmth
Or a cool, misty dampness,
Hear the quiet rustling of shifting layers,
And the silence of their perfect order,
But when I ran to your bedside,
All I found was sterile new sheets,
And yellowing, dank pillows.
There is a note on the nightstand,
But I do not think you wrote it.