i make this bed for you, a king-sized bed exempt of fiberglass, decorated by tiger eye brown and embroidered sheets. i've added seven pillows for your comfort, five of which you won't ever use, but i'll keep it there for your liking. i added nine drops of lavender, so when you roll over a floral embrace awaits. three inch thick sheets to hold you, and the stuffed animal you kept since your first birthday, washed and dried in blue sparkle scent. i make this bed for you, and in it, i've planted all i can to keep you safe. you can stay as long as you like, don't fret or feel as though you can't stay; i've made sure that each parting will be worse than the last. in egyptian cotton sheets you can weep your lagrimas de nostalgia, mourning an era that never will be. longing for company you won't see for another three years, regretting your moments of weakness, cowardice, and fear. lamenting moments you convinced yourself wouldn't last or matter; in this bed, you can remain for as long as you please. replaying conversations you wished you had said more in, and then that never happened–– yet you'll pretend they did. eyeing the door, hoping the knuckles of the one you seek solace from will tap thrice, followed by words of consolation. but you know that knock won't come, and the utterances you long for are only figurative. in this bed, wrapped in fine sheets, you can pretend–– create a sanctuary you never want to leave. soon time will become abstract, and people will retire their search for you. the blinds will close with each passing day, and the playlist made seven years ago will continue to play on a loop for you.
so lay down.
close your eyes.
and sleep tight.

-c.alejandra