Four Feet One Bed




“True love belongs to the truly mad,” David once said.
And instead of a pause or a period he ended the sentence with a soft and pleasant pout upon my wanting head.
After that, it always felt warm,
my heart that is.

I used to watch him from the silver rusted mirror in my boudoir;
eyes shut, like a babe in womb, he slept ever so soundly.
Only the faint whispers of opening and closing heart valves could be heard.
They all took turns professing his existence.

I stayed still, and quiet so as to absorb every inch of him;

to swallow him in as my own.

And while I’m always thinking in him,
Its while I sleep,  he peeks beneath the satin sheet,
happy, for one bed and four feet.

They used to say, “You cannot have it all!”
These are the same they whose boots and heels are drenched in the blood of abandoned dreams.
They sleep inside a bed of thorns quilted to appear fancy and settled;

They are not.

Their hearts are peeled back and weary as they smile and sell being useful & cheery.

Life bruised them, and they choose: do not mend.

I find no use in ‘They’ or ‘Them.’
My resplendent feathers shall not be plucked.

All these thoughts.
Thrown and chased away thoughts.
I find no use in they or them;
Not while I nestle my cheek inside his beckoning den.

Both baited and hooked,
We are blissful fish with torn lips.


By: Magnolia Lafleur

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