You slept soundly. The sounds of my sobs did not, and I guess could not wake you.
Who am I but a warm body on your bed. I'm guessing I was not too different from the dog you once owned. She died. I am on the verge of dying.
You never put your arms around me. Those fluffy good nights kisses haven't been felt on my forehead for years. Who am I but a warm body on your bed.
I use to seek solace in your strong arms, well contoured shoulders. You made all these in available to me. I tossed and I turned, you made not effort to put the blanket over me, to ensure I would be put to sleep. I tossed and I turned, you grunted.
I decided to leave you.
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The first time we shared a bed, we were two warm bodies tangled up in each other. We craved for each other, continuously. When the craving stopped, you made sure you were my blanket. Your provided me with security.
You planted kisses on my forehead, on my cheeks and on my left ear. You were always specific like that. I tossed and turned. You woke up, you changed the way your arms wrapped around me. Sometimes, you simply held my hand.
I like to plant my chin in your shoulder. I felt I could share the weight of my world with you. You rest your head on my face. We slept awkwardly like that, entwined. Your hands never left me, you knew I hated that.
One night we were so tired we could not keep our bodies entwined like we use to. We held hands. We fell asleep.
I decided I would stay with you till the end of time.
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Tonight I sleep alone. It is 4.03am and I remember the best and the worst. Where are you now?
