Transient

In my old age,
my parents have decided
to give me space:
a room of my own
complete with a bed
and a view of the
woods beside our house.

As the body grows older
it grows inflexible, it seems
either that
or my bed is too hard
I can't sleep nights.

My muscles involuntarily
curve to an imaginary space
you occupied
lifetimes ago.

I feel the strain of living
whenever my cheek touches
bedsheets, made rough-smooth
by the spin-dry cycle of
the washing-machine downstairs.

I open my windows
to the elements.
I laugh at the face
of cyclones.

There is no reason
to stay.
Why will I
miss this place?