Offered, not taken

 

clean sheets

the cozy glow of an old lamp

a pink folded washcloth.

my pillow offered,

not taken.

I would wish she was there

with her feet sticking out past the 

white rails, but the sheets will remain

clean, a sterile smell instead of 

that of her, the one whose scent was

intermingled with mine, who was 

once one with me.

time has passed, and unslept beds 

must be carried along with 

the lunchboxes in the basement gathering

dust, the small dresses we save for grandchildren,

the books which floated away in the flood.