ode to a sheet

At the end of the day
I'm all
ankles
and arms
and I don't really
see you
(the woolen comforter,
you've been overtaken,
the dark plaid that seeps
like a wine stain over
your pale face;)
but I made this bed
and I can rip
it up
and over
to find
you.

I never know the answer
for why I stay up this late
and you, unshaken,
never ask the question.

Sometimes in the night
when all my ankles and arms
get
twisted up
in your tangles,
you hold me down
hold me safe
so those devils at my heels
can't
drag me away,
not until I'm awake.

You and my
fingertips,
a bruise on my shin,
my eyelashes
and my lips
are enough
to know I'm
still beneath
the sheets,
still breathing,
still asleep.