“ This bed I fall asleep in
reminds me of those books
I read when I was younger,
sheets bent in the same
pattern I left them in,
spine tired and worn.
This is what it looks like
to be adored, I tell myself,
this is what it feels like
to fall in love with words
written for someone else.
I read you in all the sleepless
creases you left in my pillow,
the words you spilled in the
dreams we used to share.
We reach for books the way
we reach for our beds,
for comfort, for familiarity.
We love the way it feels
when our hearts break
the same way we built them.
The books you’ve read
you will read again,
time will pass and you’ll
remember beginnings
but not how they end;
you will fall asleep in the
same shape you ended
your last story in, because
you’ve forgotten how to close
your eyes and how to start again.
This is what happens when we
make stories out of people,
when we bring them home with us
and create bookmarks out of all
the places we used to make love.
But beds are like books,
I tell myself, tired and worn
to the bone; and this is what
it looks like to be adored,
I’ve been told. This is what
it feels like to fall in love
with stories that were never
written for you. ”
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