That bed isn’t on sale.

The bed.

By itself.

The sheets and pillows, the thousands of threads coming together to form that exquisite cool knit,  the sweet blanketing cover. First about a life put together, then twisted and all-aside, this bed a constant metaphor. (Somone took the corner of the blanket, where it feels velvet, and placed it to the corner of the eye–a particular habit.)

Far too long without words, without writing in the blog. All apologies, where due, to those loyal few readers who have wondered where she is. She is  here, only made smaller by the doubts and insecurities that begin as we age, as we accumulate hurts, and accumulate instances where we’ve caused hurt. LET her put forth: apology to YOU, whoever you are. If her words hurt you, she apologizes ahead of the injury.

So she goes back to the writing. To the seduction of it, a sweet and chemical shot to the blue, chickeny arm, an unforgiving and demanding lover. She worries Karma might have it in store for her–hurricanes and tsunamis, drownings, incoming, unbearable crisis, horrible batten-up seaboard storms. She hopes her God and your liberal other gods will go easy on her. Or that at least all her associates will know something about CPR. Personal protective equipment to get away from the blood that comes from hurting.

Hurry! Put her into the revive position, knees up.

There’s no reason for the sheets to lie without any body to warm them tonight.