The bed I made is a grave. The duvet, now stained with wrong turns that once brimmed like the sea in my eyes, grows heavier with the passing of time. But it can no longer retain heat. So, I sleep in the cold.
Every night.
Crisp folds on the top sheet are an attempt at hiding the wrinkles that threaten perfection. For years — even more so now — the goose feather mattress grants my shoulders and back rest from the weight of existing, while fluffed pillows cradle weary bones and caress fissured skin.
Now, the cracks are starting to fill with scarlet-stained earth. May it be fertile enough to let beautiful things grow one day. But for now, I sleep in the cold.
Every night.
There is method in this madness. Up on the frigid gallows, sleep is the only escape. Slumber so sweet, it puts the faithful to shame — for they only know the trivial side to living. It is the faithless who have laid in bed with life’s tragedies.
But temper your sorrow. It will be years before this fated sleep will deliver harpies toward the proverbial light. Until then, I will prepare for its arrival. For now, I will sleep in the cold.
Every night.
myfairvagabond 