For weeks on end I whined to you
'Bout how I wanted to go home,
My room painted yellow and blue,
And my bed as soft as clouds' foam.

But quite frankly I'd forgotten
How cold my bed got this season.
Even my sheets made of cotton
Failed to warm me without reason.

In abundance, I now had space
To stretch my body out at will
Though I curl in my own embrace
Quiet on my side I lie still.

Now I think I would trade it all
For my small, tiny, narrow bed
And my desolate white brick wall
If you were next to me instead.