Have you ever laid in bed
and cried so hard
to the point you’ve had to cover your mouth
so you didn’t make any noise?

The rain tickles the roof
Trickles in spittle down the gutter
Uneven beats on a hollow drum
The soundtrack to my slumber

I can still taste the toothpaste,
my ears hold a dampness
from the flannel,
my pants give rise
to the airer’s freshness
and I’m yet to lose
the stiffness of my bed -

and yet
I remain hopeful of the day,
that it will weigh heavier,
grow mustier,
yield an aroma
I can relate to.

the world is flown
       and i sleep beside you wed
 our mossy appetite has become cleaved  
                                   a sleeve running between us on this bed
      a warm hum     the pores  pipe open
    intimacy issues forth    traversing the gap
  intelligence sliding    slack and froth    
        like moist candy-floss   icking and tearing

our shared dream
     our powerful phantom
         gussy travellers
       ravelling in sheets of smoky sea
 grey/green misting of the memory gland
gathering up dead celebrity
tuning structures to our jubilee
re-creation in a vibe theatre
we're partners conducting our behaviour
                         for a grand flotsam revelry    
                                      dizzed up and narcotic
         no doubt ; we are unreal

it is the neon hour...

i flicker
           feeling the rushing of your warm system
         i feel weather speed over our bodies
                               striping and refreshing the energy
            in the oil light blinking   i see you
          scar beauty over the berths' landscape
           you turn the body over and illuminate the eyes
          you are if to say     "plug back in to our shared motion"
           "we could be imperishable"
         "i cannot return without my inconsiderate spouse"
          you brush my hand which fizzes
                                          and i clothe my eyes
           re-enter our developing potion
          
          within   our great mouths feed alike
          our dual nature is a shared gratification   within

Five hundred nights we shared this room
You still crack the blinds to watch the moon

No dogs allowed has been long overruled
You always felt that was just a bit cruel

Despite the hair, dirt, and drool
You welcome the new fur family rule

No more fussing with my sloppy side
Now you tidy the sheets in half the time

The center of the mattress is just as fine
Though you still refuse to cross that line

You still sleep on your side of the bed
Yet, Five hundred nights since I've been dead

I've noticed just how much of our talking waits
until bedtime - as if until then
we have lacked permission to pause
until we've undressed and bundled ourselves
into our duvet time-capsules.

Alas, it’s then
when the competing urgency of sleep rises
and meets our log-jammed thoughts

it’s then when our fight fades,
when our wide meander sprawls,
exhausted of its pungency

And its then
when our ability to cement thoughts
cracks in the face of creeping sleep
rerunning its classic dreams
and rebuilding forgotten worlds
that we’re fated to later abandon in the shudder of dawn,
and the demands of a new day.

And so, we delay any conscious introspection
and leave our contemplations to our advancing Sandman
as we slumber and sleepwalk in his wake.

The bed has never been the comfiest place to sleep in.
Everywhere else is better than sleeping on a bed.
The couch is inviting, soft, weird place to sleep, but acceptable.
Single wooden chairs lined perfectly, not so much.
But still, better than a bed.
The floor too, albeit cold and flat, it stretched my muscles into place, held me to the ground until I was fast asleep,
so still, it is better than a bed.
Sitting while im on my desk supposedly doing my homework is also better than laying in bed.
Why was everywhere else so much better than being where I should be?
I never fell asleep on the bed. It was too stuffy, too suffocating, too boring, too everything.
It was loud, and banging on my mind with quietness and precision as it does every night.
But most especially, it felt too much like a coffin.
I’d rather sleep anywhere else than on the bed.