Ode to a spider on my ceiling –
is it strange that I want to leave the light on for you?
Or that I sometimes think about you clinging to those invisible strands while
a man sleeps in my bed, as I leave for work in the morning.
A kiss on the forehead, an arm snaking out from under the covers to hold me close before I go. Burrowing back into the bed, hiding from autumn chill.
His discarded shirt on the floor, the one that I sleep in, the soft one that makes him smile when the ends creep up and expose my hip.
I don’t want to tear your web down, you seem so peaceful, shielded from the elements. How can I disrupt your zen, when I rush in from the wind, scarf and hood pulled up to block my sensitive skin?
I think you sort of get me.
Moving to my music when I do, silent when I am. I check for you every morning; when I was a kid, it would’ve been out of fear, to furtively see if you’d stayed in the same place, not moving closer to my head as I slept. Now, I’m making sure you’re still comfortable.
I wonder what you’d think of a second voice in the mornings, or of larger boots snuggled next to mine near the door.
Of coffee brewing before dawn, coffee that isn’t mine.
Image is not mine.