Goodbye bed

It was on that last night,
before I took you out to the truck,
and before mother’s litany
of photos from the Northeast,
and before the phone call,
that phone call,
later the next day,
and even before the final foot rub
for my parents, and all the world,
to see, as we sat on that
love seat, and I believed
that being there may indeed
make the love possible –
you and I were in the bedroom
one last time (why
were we there?) and
I asked would you sleep
here with me again before
I have to leave this place and
you said, “yes,” and I fell for it, and
later we kissed and said goodbye
for the final time out by your truck,
and that too was before
I knew what the next day would bring,
and now I sit here in this bed, and
I haven’t washed the sheets or made
the bed since then, and it stays wrinkled
and in the space where my body usually lays
there’s an indentation, and where yours laid
there is a chalk outline
surrounding a lone pillow,
and where my heart lies,
restless most nights,
there’s a chalk outline
around it too.