Your Bed

This bed.

Where you lay sleepless in the dark, tracing imaginary outlines of a body you once knew so well, listening to occasional sounds of footsteps and fragments of conversations drifting through the open window, hoping to hear her voice.

Inside is your silence.

This bed.

Too big for one. In a house, with dust-covered memories. Before the dust, before the silence, this bed was made for two. Now you sit on this bed, trawling Facebook for pictures; wondering if the guy next to her is someone she's fucking.

Inside are your shadows.

This bed.

Its posters covered in cobwebs of what once was your truth; a game where the pieces disintegrated each time one of you made a move. This bed is haunted by fragments of conversations, the heat of her body, as you lay sleepless inside your darkness.

Ugh! Been working on this for weeks now and can still not get it right - all I seem to be doing is shift sentences around. I'm just not a poet (though some nice lines in there, which is why I couldn't let it go - will plagiarize self and use in novel!) so I give up - fuck your bed!