The dank musty odor of her last lover's homestead.
The cedar smell of her new husband's carriage house, the long walk up the stairs to the antiseptic cleaning.
The new sheets on the carefully made bed
elevated high off the ground with brown twilled comforter.
So unlike the futon on the ground at the homestead.
She slept better on the floor
and where the bedroom had recessed walls forming a cave, and her bed was shielded and grounded, she felt safe.
But here amid in the high bed, granite countertops, and shiny appliances there was nowhere to hide.
Only the melancholy heaviness that this would not last.
Was she tired of her lovers, or tired of herself?
Would she ever find anyone that she could give herself fully to, completely enmesh, completely disappear?
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