by Nicholas Wong

 

With you, I prefer my single bed,

proximity so naked. Your birthmark unhiding,

a reminder of life-long imperfection.

When I turn around, I hear its breathing –

Defects have a life of their own.

 

We sadly check into this room for its queen-

sized bed. So we can roll over each other

like many foolish others. We know this bed

has been unmade by different faces, our bodies

not brand new. We know.

 

Your body curls towards the other side

of the bed, about to fall. But you won't know

it in your deep sleep. Your limbs securely at rest,

perhaps limning secrets that you once wanted

to tell but finally held back. Even the thought

of any action is a duty in love.

 

I sit afar, watching reality shows running

on marathon. Reality only shows; it never be.

Like the beddings, the mattress. And our distance

on it, on rent always, always make-believe.

 


 

Nicholas YB Wong is the author of Cities of Sameness (Desperanto, forthcoming) and the winner of several awards, including the Sentinel Quarterly Poetry Competition, nominations for the Best of the Net and Web Anthologies in 2010. He is currently a poetry editor for THIS Literary Magazine and a poetry reader for Drunken Boat.

 

This poem originally appeared in issue 1.

 

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