Dear Bed,
I love you.
When I'm around you, I have to touch you, to be enfolded by you. I want to sink into you and be comforted.
On rainy mornings, I lie there in your warmth, in your cave, and I know that your weight will keep me grounded. We stay there, with the radiator blowing softly over us, and have strange, exotic dreams. I will tell you all my secrets.
I will always be faithful. Other beds might enter my life, brief friends, but I can't relax with them the way I can with you. They are not my heart outside my body. They will never see me at my most naked.
Listen, Bed, I've been on my knees by your side. You have seen the worst of me. No. You haven't. I haven't either. I have cried for you, in other places, cold and exhausted. I have needed your spirit. I have needed to be calm. You have needed my gentle movement, the twist of my hands, the sleepy way my hair drifts across your expanse, the way I oven in the middle of the night. This is what we mean to each other. This is us at our most essential functions. I trust you. I talk in my sleep.
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