Rumpled Bed

This room is not mine
with its tousled sheets,
remnants of bathroom fixtures,
books, dirty clothes, debris
scattered about, layered in dust,
looking like a whirlwind
had swooped in, scooped it up,
and dropped it whatever –

It might not even be his –
the memories of another woman’s
scent still fills his nostrils,
befuddling his clouded mind –
making “letting go” a distant dream.

I am but an infrequent visitor
who lives in a fantasy
that one day he might look at me
with those golden brown eyes
and know that there was a love
who would not leave
when another
more tempting morsel
flavored her palette.

I looked about the room
knowing yet again
I have given my heart
to someone who couldn’t return
the intensity of feelings
in equal measure –

Seems I have spent this life
in the shadow of other women –
Their midnight stirrings
sharing the same bed
I so sparingly sleep in.

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