Echo

Turned, twisted bed sheets Piled up into mountains and caves

In a fall bed that sheds its skin. The music floats above,
in whirlwinds of 130 thread counts
that gush us into an opening

between branches, breaches and
the gap beneath the pillow
and my self, that chases what’s left

of your laugh in the air

soaked slivers of river
undressing the snow forts

of a landscape gone,
bursting, flooding
all the way
towards an echo 

on the tip of my fingers 

I run

downhill

unstoppable 

and drown 

as I make my way to you

in turned, twisted 

sinews of water 

that are few

and fewer

and running dry 

as I reach the ground 

to throw over the sheets

and not find you

out of breath 

out of words 

out...

out,

out!

there’s only music escaping

through a window

clinging to what’s left

of a 130 thread count in a fist.