The bed only knows the weight
That leaves it for, unknowingly, the last time;
The warmth no longer pressed to its quilt,
The down that will never sink again
This came to my mind at around 3:00 AM last night, the perspective of the bed. It was built and made to serve us at our most restless, our most vulnerable, but we don’t often lend it the kindness to tell it why someone leaves. Does it know? Or does it wallow thinking it has wronged us in some way?