The room breathes aloud, a heaving bass chest,
a white noise mix of the running furnace and the muffled rhythmic
doorbell chiming of cricket legs, hardly distant, as if they’re already inside.
You mumble in your sleep, shift clumsily to claim your place,
leaving me with less than a third of the bed and a kneecap
creating a warm pink mark on the small of my back.
The room heaves, the sheets rustle like windy oak trees
as I bury my face into what should be quiet, but isn't.
I'm growing old from lack of sleep, I just know it.
Growing into my own head, instead of resting it,
growing vines that wrap and curl into my ear drums,
roots that suck sanity from the gray behind my forehead,
and push it out my hair follicles, visible to anyone who looks at me.
Your hair is dusty brown, youthful and sleepy.
You can often be found snoozing lightly at the movies,
in front of the tv, or sound asleep on a Sunday afternoon.
It was just last week, you were standing in the Colorado sun,
when I saw one for the first time... A single white strand,
fluttering in your sideburn. You denied its existence.
I had to pluck it and hold it in the light where you could
see a little of your own gray had escaped.
Probably from a little too much sleep.
Hi, @tlhopkinson sorry I missed this! I enjoyed it! This is a very clever take on age and couples. The vivid descriptions and word choices had me doubting that the overall idea of the poem was really so simple, but I think that is what best held my attention.
The lines "The room heaves, the sheets rustle like windy oak trees" and 'roots that suck sanity from the gray behind my forehead" were probably my favorite. Quite ingenious!
As for the ending, I thought it to be rather humorous and even insightful in itself, especially since you have taken a seemingly deep approach on a seemingly simple concept. It is almost bittersweet.
The following users say thank you to SerenaLantha for this useful post:tlhopkinson
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