The bed required three cushions.
Was flanked by two tables, but this was okay,
because together they made three pieces of furniture.
There were only two windows. So she hung a painting on the wall.
This left one wall bare, but one was better than two,
though not as good as three.
(Don’t even get her started on four.)
She had three cats. Two slept on the bed, one preferred the couch.
This was not ideal, but no matter how many times she moved the cat
…he always moved back.
Her husband was one man. (Not three.) This was also not ideal,
for she liked to make love three times in a row
and her husband had to draw the line somewhere.
At night, she would shower for three minutes,
take three sips of water and lay in bed smiling and dreaming
of triangles, tripod fish and triple goddesses.
She scooped her slight belly, hoping for triplets
and praying she wouldn’t
She wanted to write a poem for him.
But she did not want to write a poem for him because she could not be sure she would feel the same way towards him the next month or even the next day, let alone years from now where the writing would still exist. She attempted many drafts though none of them were quite right, so she began to think her wishes to write or to not write a poem were irrelevant since the poem clearly did not want to be written anyway.
She kept thinking about what she wanted to write, circling the emotion. Then she realised it was this emotion that was holding her back; she was too caught up in it, she needed to step outside the facts, the truth of the situation, and fictionalise it.
But she did not want to lie in a poem written for friendship. And yet, maybe the poem was already a lie, maybe it wasn’t a platonic poem after all, maybe she secretly liked him more than the bounds of friendship permitted and the poem knew she was a liar and sought to expose her.