Buried below pillows
I sail from darkness
towards bright stars
rising behind weeping eyes.

I need to say something I’d rather not have to say
But there is a bed I have made and now I must lay
you shouldn’t have to know
But I’m gonna say no
I really hope our friendship won’t have to pay.....

I have a headboard on my bed.
I don’t like when the pillows fall,
slid between the mattress and wall,
with nothing to prop up my head.

I do not have a footboard though.
(It’s a footboard, right? I’m not sure.)
It seems a bedset’s haute couture—
useless ornament just for show.

I also don’t have those siderails.
You know. The kind that toddlers use,
so they don’t fall off while they snooze.
For now, I’ve outgrown such travails.

See, three is my lucky number,
and there can be no objections
if from one of three directions,
I climb in to start my slumber.

Now, though, all that having been said,
I really haven’t slept okay.
Wait! I’ll just sleep the other way!
I have a footboard on my bed.

He's walking up the stairs, slowly.

I can hear every slender step, though
I'm sure he believes I can't. My
breath quickens ever so slightly.

It's late and he must think I'm fast
asleep. He reaches the top of the
stairs and stops. And my heart stops
with him. I float for a moment on
our soft sheets. He walks to the
room and opens the door, carefully.

The gentle carefulness of someone
who truly cares. Someone who'd watch
over me as I slept, breathing every
soft breath. He takes off his shirt
and his pants and crawls in beside
me. He kisses me on the shoulder a
goodnight kiss, blown by the sandman
for all my dreams. But I'm awake so
I whisper to him, reaching out in
the dark to feel his face, his beard,
his lips. And he reaches into darkness
to feel me. To feel my furry cheeks,
down to my chest to stroke the hair
and flesh, digging into my heart. I
kiss him. He kisses me back. And I
know he is happy.


-
Aleksander Mielnikow

beds crammed with our bodies,
bodies so close
hearts so distant.
the beating of my heart
matched with the
ticking of the clock to
the patter of morning rain
to the continuous  beeping
of your alarm.
hell, they almost sounded like
wedding bells.
but i couldnt hear the sound of
your heart beating.
not a single pulse, my love?

At one, the concept of a bed is not quite there yet, but comfort never leaves
At three, one toddles into the sheets of their parents with no intention of sharing
At five, one begins to dread getting up for school
At seven, friends get one through the morning
At nine, one still complains about waking up so early
At eleven, minds begin to change
At thirteen, one lays in bed during the morning in a cloud of self-consciousness
At fifteen, one tosses and turns with thoughts of homework and that cute girl at lunch
At seventeen, one stares at the popcorn ceiling contemplating the future, threads of some unknowable as heavy as lead intertwining the possibilities
At nineteen, one can bend under the burdensome troubles and be sequestered to their comfort at home
Or lift the hulking sheets, Atlas, and go on. Go on to the complex, enigmatic world and return when one is done.