It's Never Too Late--Unless You're Dead

These bed sheets are arms,

Holding me,

Eating me alive.

They moisten with the pressure of clandestine prayers,

Breath a ghost,

The ghost of you,

Saturating my bloodstream with what could have been.

A dark passenger, all bones, serving as a tenant with nothing

But crimes

To pay for.

And yet, when my body blankets the corpse of the bed,

When my handprint is stitched with your lost promises,

I forgive you.

I forgive you

I forgive you

I forgive you

For leaving me.

And I’m sorry.

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

For leaving you.

But on some mornings,

When the light brushes my curtains aside to giggle at the life within,

And when the harmony of silverware reminds me of my family below,

I think to myself,

What a world.

What a world where nothing is special

And everything is.

What a world where the raw larvae of happiness is aching to be felt,

To be smothered with what could have been.

Where I can feel you in every lonely morning and pregnant night.

It’s all gone.

You’re all gone.

But on some mornings,

When the light brushes my curtains aside to giggle at the life within,

And when the harmony of silverware reminds me of my family below,

I think to myself,

What a world.

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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