tapestry.

I stretch myself across the bed, more disheveled than the bedding embracing my slump. The same bedding which has become all too familiar with how ineffective I can be as I sleep the days away when loneliness comes to visit. Unable to lift my heavy flesh off the bed, I somehow find the energy to move my right arm. Without a plan in mind, my arm snakes itself to my nightstand, as I watch with the half of my face which is not crammed into a pillow. My fingers join the fun as they spring to life the motions necessary to open the top drawer. The hand I once controlled, now with a mission apart from my mission of slumber, forces itself thru the trenches of socks and sleeping pill bottles to gain access to the rear of my nightstand drawer. Then it stopped abruptly, signaling success in the search, and retreated. I pull out the empty cologne bottle I have carried from state to state, residence to residence. With my thumb I force the top from the cylinder bottle and pull it to my face for a whiff. As I drew into my nostrils the faint fragrance that resonated in the corners of this aged cylinder, tears began to drip down my cheek while the memories of a happier time came together like dozens of little puzzle pieces to paint the tapestry of love lost.