What I love about you floats through my head,
and I realize that every moment I’ve ever loved has transpired in your bed.

A lot has happened there, in your room with the dark shades:
talking, crying, laughing, sweating, screaming—all in your bed.

The same things over and over, better and better,
Each time we would lie there, together, in your bed.

Sleep is in the past, no sleep for us would last.
I don’t think I’ve ever been fully clothed in your bed.

I’d wear a lot of red, and black, for that matter,
two small pieces of cloth that were quickly lost in your bed.

I like to think about the milestones—not the ones at restaurants,
not the birthdays, nor Christmases—but the ones in your bed.

The first time you told me you loved me,
surprise, surprise: we were lying in your bed.

I miss the talks, the cries, the movies we watched,
the countless hours we spent, holding each other in your bed.

The physical—my favourite—the naughty, naughty
things we've done: I wish every one of them happened in your bed.

Some were in mine, but they didn’t fulfill the same thrill,
even in mind-blowing places, I wished we were in your bed.

Your bed is cold and hard—a place I would never want to sleep alone.
As you could have imagined: I don’t love the plain thing that is your bed.

I love that it smells like you, that it’s where you fall asleep:
these are the two things I like best about your bed.

A bed is sacred to a person and I love that you've invited me into yours.
I could imagine that you miss mine, and I miss mine too, but my bed is not your bed.

I miss you as I write—don’t get me wrong,
but the thing I want most right now is to be with you in your bed.