I woke up with you on Mother’s Day,
all I could think was, “What would mine say?”
Yours?

An ocean away.

I laughed at you in this queen-sized bed,
basking in the glow of our sins,
watching the sunlight trickle in,
tickling your feet dangling over its ledge.

Your phone rang:
Mom

“Why didn’t you call, it’s almost noon.”
I watched you shrink from six feet to two,
your feet frozen over the ledge,
her baby boy’s tanned skin burning red.

This bed is too small for the two of us.
This room is too cramped with the three of us.
She knows why you didn’t call before noon,
but your conversation has nothing to do with us.

I tried to sneak out
but you grabbed my hand.
You kissed it,
then asked,
“Could I see you again?”

I’m sure my mom would have lots to say,
if she knew where I woke up today.