NaPo WriMo #18

Bunk Beds

There was this time,
after the stung sweat of awkward adolescence,
and a spell of staring cold and blank at a world that I suspected I could love, if I could only find my tongue-
there was this time,
where I stumbled (over some slumped, boy-shaped notion of love), into this:

A pile of humans.
A kind of soup of ideas and glory
that sometimes I only remember as a festoon of warm lights
strung across the side of a barn where the friendly noise a band playing inside
gulps you inward.

We tumbled, heart-shaped, and always towards morning.
Someone passed a beer, a spliff, a record for you to peer at its lovely sleeve.
A plate of daal that (although my stomach was still closed for business) smelled of belonging somewhere and was warm on my knees.

And perhaps now, I will always wish for more spaces at bedtime,
always rail against loved ones being spat out the city night towards empty rooms
with alarm clocks waiting and socks laid out for morning.

Will always wish for bunk beds to fold from all the walls in an instant,
and every last blanket put to good use.

Give me a bare arm escaped hot from a next-door sleeping bag, and slung across me in the night.
Give me morning tea for twenty and the intangible affirmation of collective breakfast-
steam rising from us like horses as we settle, shuffle, rearrange
and set our sights on the strange days ahead.
Give me falling asleep in earshot of the steady breathing of someone who taught me to be brave.

Go to sleep,
the grownups will be here soon
to tell us we cannot live this way forever.

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