The big, lonely bed, stationary in all its essence, longed for her return. It resented the man now, biting and clawing at his skin. Although he had done nothing intentional or malicious to the bed, the bed held the man accountable and punished him for it.

The bed was nothing without the man's mistress. She had lain on the bed, dressed it with color and sweetness and light. She adorned the bed with her body, her being.
At times, the mistress and the big, lonely bed seemed to meld, to become one. And this had filled the bed with life. The big, lonely bed was not lonely yet.

The man never offered any of this to the big, lonely bed. He would come home late and drunkenly pass out on the bed. He would eat his meals on the bed and pay all his attention to the TV. His crumbs would find the recesses of the bed's matting and he rarely changed the bedding. Sometimes, he would ******* on the bed without a care.

It wasn't clear if the mistress missed the bed as much as the bed missed her. Or if the mistress even missed the bed at all. The bed never spoke of it, as inanimate objects are forbidden from such things. The big, lonely bed considered greatly her long absence now but couldn't quite fittingly express its pain.

The man began enduring several sleepless nights on the bed. He was too determined to admit why. Denial was his restful tool. But the bed did wake him. The big, lonely bed scratched at his comfort. Scratched at the man's contentment and resolve. The bed kept the man awake with pain and desire and awareness. The bed was not going to let the man just “use” it. There is a price to pay for sleep and the big, lonely bed was determined to extact it.

The man tossed and turned these early, restless nights. Embattled by the bed's desperate curse, the man continues to lose precious, precious sleep. He was too self-absorbed to know he was under siege by the big, lonely bed. He tried applying pharmaceutical methods and concocted psychosomatic cures for his lack of sleep. The man began to consider himself an insomniac and openly complained to his friends about it.

The big, lonely bed's desire for the return of the man's mistress reached new levels of retribution as the bed started to manipulate its springs and padding to muddle its very own comfort and purpose. Now the man could only list one way or the other on the bed. He thought about his lost love. And his lost sleep…

The man was also losing to the big, lonely bed. He longed for the slumber he so desperately needed. Without restful peace, he began to teeter near ledges, dangerous and desolate ledges. There he quietly mumbled her name. The man sobbed as he whispered the horrors he had played victim to by the very mistress the bed adored.

The big, lonely bed listened as the man cried his tears of missed opportunities and sincere attempts with the mistress. She had treated him badly. The man's tears fell upon the bed. And the bed absorbed the man’s agony. The bed had been blinded by its own desire for her, never considering the man's love for her and his subsequent loss.

The man was broken now. Broken in his reckless actions and his desperate thoughts to relive and repair the relationship, to fix it. To fix everything, to fix himself. He was broken without sleep.

The big, lonely bed began to sympathize as the man counted the periodic struggles he weathered when confronted by his mistress's manic episodes. The man had indeed survived her bipolar tirades when she encouraged her fueled rage with doses of antidepressants mixed with long-poured ***** and tall glasses of Pinot Gris. The bed remembered these exhausting nights and recalled the punishment the man endured for simply loving her.

The bed did witness the man's suicidal flirtations and pathetic attempts to blame himself. To blame himself for all of it. If he could only share just one more night with her. One more night on his bed with her… in his bed. Talking and laughing. Loving and planning. He could fix this. With the help of his big, lonely bed, the man could fix it all.

The bed did take pity on him.
The big, lonely bed understood now. And welcomed the man that night, lonely no more.

Lie down with me.
We can sleep together.
For I have made this bed.
This bed of pillow and feather.
This castle of comforters with the towers of pillows and the throne of blankets and the crown of bliss.
It is easy to escape the stress and the work of the real world.
This bed is soft and cozy, always warmer than the air surrounding it.
Lie down with me.
Lie down in this bed and turn your life inside out.
I use this bed to leave behind everything I probably need to worry about.
A tickle in my back.
I cover my eyes with the sheets to get away from the fear.
The fear of you moving on and me staying here.
The fear of falling behind.
But this bed is comforting and calming and I don’t mind to fall behind, to fall into bed.
The tickle in my back grows stronger so I flip my pillow over to the cold side and bury my body in the soft, rolling hills of my comforter.
This bed is helpful to me.
You don’t see it yet but that is because you haven’t felt it.
I have slept in the bed of the gods and I know I will never leave.
The stars left their spots in the sky and they’re under the sheets listening to me grieve.
The moon tucked me in and promised never to deceive.
If you just listen you’ll start to believe.
The tickle in my back begins to sharpen.
This bed dulls the pain.
This bed.
This bed.
I love this bed and it loves me.
This bed is soft blues and softer pinks.
This bed is happy yellows and calming lavenders.
I wish you could see the sheets from underneath.
The tickle in my back has become a very sharp pain, and it’s stinging me over and over again.
But this bed will protect me.
Won’t it?
This bed was made for me to sleep in.
I lift my sheets and crawl completely under, happy to be protected and warm.
The stings in my back hurt.
Oh God, they hurt.
I rub at them because even with my body wrapped up completely in the sheets of my bed, they hurt.
My hand comes back ******.
I turn over to look at my bed and I see that what you told me is true.
I see why the only person who didn’t crawl into this bed is you.
I see why your heart has hurt, and my back has hurt, too.
I see what it is now that drove me off the rails.
I see why my ears only hear sobs and wails.
I see why the pain in my life always prevails.
I see that this bed I have made is a bed of nails.
I have fallen from grace, the slowest in the race.
This bed I use is just a brace, a brace to fill the empty space.
This realization I have to face, I have no pain I have embraced.
So I let this pillow case become a hiding place.
But this bed is wrong.
This bed is deceiving.
This bed.
This bed.
The nails grow longer and longer, into my back.
They push themselves into my spine and forward into my heart and lungs and stomach.
This bed has me trapped, unable to move.
The nails have grown through me, binding me to this bed for all eternity.
This bed is pain.
This bed is suffering.
I try to cry out to you for help but I’m buried under the sheets.
What once was comforting is smothering me now.
Wake me up.
What once was welcoming is poisonous now.
Please.
Wake me up.
What once was my bed is now my coffin.
I’m begging you to please wake me up.
This bed.
Oh, this bed.
This bed is evil.

you might get a chill in bed
if you leave the windows open
in cold nights
and push away the quilt or blanket
all through sleep;
you can get comfort and peace
for a while at least
digging into bed
and covering yourself in
like an ostrich with its head in the sand;
you can get sick in bed
or you get, over time,
a bad back
in a bad bed;
or you get *** in bed
and or get lots of love;
you get coffee in bed,
or breakfast;
but you can also get
thrown out of bed;
or if you’re convincing enough
you can pretend to be sick
and they’ll even bring dinner to you in bed;
and you can have dreams and nightmares
and so travel even while in bed
and live every unknown layer in your mind;
you could, let’s face it, die in bed;
or if still alive
you can get wet dreams
and so get wet;
you can get sweet words whispered
or words uttered that split the bed;
you can spend time in bed
you can make plans in bed
and create empires or just build castles in bed
though there’s no sand or rocks about;
and you can dream in bed and work out your
inhibitions and delusions;
you can get ideas in bed
inspiration for a poem or the next great novel;
you can get
hugs and kisses
snuggles and pillow talk;
and pillow fights and sleepovers;
or perhaps, if you’re just born,
the comfort of lullabies