Don't leave me for the bedroom, we've been there a handful of time, my hair tangled around your fingers, and the time you said you loved me written across your chest.
I've slept alone in here, maybe once or twice, the smell of you blanketed me and I felt so completely disabled, so paralyzed with thought of you bringing your heat beneath these sheets.
I've examined every inch of this room, I can tell you where the light shines like moons, and almost every object on your bedside table (a stuffed dog, loose change, a note, crumpled up homework, a dock, your keys, the miscellaneous, and me.)
I've laughed here, but I'll never cry here, beds with beautiful boys were never meant for mini-oceans and heaving shoulders. I wonder if you've cried here, laughed here, wished for me here. Makes me wonder who else knew everything on that table, or saw the dust filtering through your blinds, did she love it all as much as I?
This felt safe, your warmth and your chest beating along in time with mine, this wasn't home, but a hell.
For if you left? These would be the things to haunt me.