Four A.M. and Rolling Over

Four A.M. and rolling over,

I see your shifted features, 

tilted in the corner shadow, 

like a fitted sheet slipped

from the end of the bed

So shrewdly thrown against the wall.
Sucked into that void that pulls like a 

black hole from beneath the bed.

Little chest, fluff compressed,

Trapped in the flat maw of wall and mattress.

Your poor head, bloated from the stuffing

Forced behind your beaded eye,

Like a cotton-mouthed migraine, 

or a fuzzy thought.

Or maybe you always looked that way.

The sun graciously bleeds it's veins

of orange light through the blinds 

and onto the floor. One lonely stripe

leaks onto the bed and leaves it's stain

across the sheets to betray 

that singular inky eye.

I wonder why I haven't yet moved you.