When I awoke
I woke up this morning in the fetal position,
arms clasped tightly around my knees
as if subconsciously pulling my body
back in upon itself.
I try to wash you away,
But with the strength of molasses,
Strong, sticky sweet and bitter,
You cling to the parts of me
I cannot see.
I ought to strip the sheets
the moment you withdraw.
I know I should.
I guiltily cover the bed up,
rushing to trap your heat inside,
smoothing down the comforter,
shrouding the pillow beneath.
All so I might burrow
my face in the scent of you
for one more night.
(Kirsten Fitrell is a writer and photographer in Washington DC.)