Put me to bed with a spoonful of bedtime,
A sweet emptiness, a shallow sum
Of clear tonic.
Tell me one tale, of a land we both know well
Cannot be, a fantasy, a coloured book
Of missing pages.
Shroud me in a sheer, fine sheet of night time,
Barely close enough to hold, a layer
Leave a glass by the bedside, and dim the lights:
Lower a kiss to my face, and let the door
Alone say goodnight.
As ever, mercifully this is not a reflection of my current state of mind. Admixture of affection, distance, protection, dissonance, condescension and love. It’s the cold comfort we all occasionally feel, reasonably or otherwise. Blame Plath.