She was a small woman;
although, she’d be quick to point out
she was an inch too tall to be classified
a little person.
And my bed, while not massive,
it once accommodated three sleeping adults.
However, when she and I slept,
its space was tragically inadequate.
Somehow, I became like a mountain climber
forced to attempt rest on the slimmest sliver of cliff,
one wrong toss or turn in the throes of slumber
and I was an avalanche of frustration
falling for her in all the wrong ways.
We’re not together anymore—
there were few reasons much bigger than her.
How we slept, or rather,
how she slept was indicative of our issues.
If ever I start to miss her, I stretch out
and roll over back into reclaimed territory.
Her name is merely a memory
of confiscated space,
of the destructive power of avalanches