It seems the world has become quite occupied
With the task of making beds

As if the daily fluffing
And tucking
And straight lines
Could make our time here on Earth
Any less hard

As for me, I've come to think
Beds look much more inviting
With it's sheets rippled across the wooden floor
The contours of it's folds casting shadows in the places light cannot gleam
Tapering off like the last line of a romantic poem

There's something positively dreamy
About ornate pillows, beaded and embroidered
Carelessly tossed about
Yet landing in such a manner, you find you have created art

It's as if the bed itself speaks
A gentle reminder
Of how you lay the night before
The imprint of your body still untouched
Still unmade

As if you could crawl back in at any moment
Settle into its grooves
Completely disappear into the previous moment
Drift back into a ray of morning sun
Instead of the lonely haze of dusk that has settled in your place.