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My sheets dream of you, those dreams I do not dare. Polyester and cotton, impress upon themselves your figure; defined, blue and dear.

To long for a stranger, to be more than one's friend. Might you resist the urges, to cast pity upon them; for these fabrics were woven from naivete and virginal optimism.

My love is a burden, whose weight few have known, but for you... Might the Kg be measured and shown.

And may these sheets, no longer dream such dreams, as you call my bed - Your Home, with glee.
Payton Feb 24
Was it longing in is sad, blue eyes, or was it lust?
Maybe it was a beautiful combination of the two.
She always left him wanting more.
So he gave up the sunlight for her.
He promised to spend the rest of his days  in darkness, between silk sheets and, hushed tones.
He never asked anything of her.
Seeing her body covered in nothing but moonlight was more than
his soul could ever dream of.
This poem was written in 2016.
Jaxey Feb 10
her voice
bent me
backwards
over the
bedsheets
every
syllable
spinning silk
into sea
as she drew
the breath
from my ears
and a symphony
from my lips
she turned my
twin bed
into titanic
along with me
and as I was
drowning
she was speaking
poetry
i will never forget
Paul Idiaghe Oct 2020
sky, a sea;
the sun is a ship sinking
slowly
into slumber  

& i’m a seed
sleeping
on soiled sheets,

sproutless, seeking the solace

of silence,
the nascence
of night—
the delight

in drawing dreams from dust
to dusk into day
into divinity;
in withdrawing

to the wild and wondrous
womb of waking.
Sarah Flynn Oct 2020
I try to forget about
the things that I’ve done,
and sometimes I can

but when I get home,
I see that my bad decisions
are still stained into
my bedsheets.
Paul Idiaghe Oct 2020
body blazing, he roams
with flames for feet, drags earth
behind his back, as in magma
melting mountains, as in moon
pulling, seas shifting; skull swinging
open
        like windows
                             at dawn—

all gloaming, sun slept on the satin sheets
of his mind; make merry the morning
melody till it awakes, it wakes—

he weeps, tears trickling like candle-wax
dripping from its flicker. he flares
& firmanents fall through the fumes,

bruised, blinded
—burning bush for his
banquet.

ash and cinder know not
his swelter. he bore the heat now
he becomes the fire.
Em MacKenzie Jun 2020
There is only so long
you can struggle to make a bed
before you realize,
that it's a futon.
An old note I wrote down months and months ago.
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