unmade bed seems more like a symbol than a bed,
due to it being in the very center of the room.
and then combined with the fact that
you’re missing your self from it,
and i have all this space where you will no longer
conduct your bodyhood.
when I walk into the room,
it calls out to me even more so than usual,
but calling out as a symbol, and not a bed.
what it calls out as a symbol of, I can’t be sure.
but it demands to be taken very symbolically, and it smells
like you, some variety of gone, some illusions
and some beautiful ones.
the time you said “no one eats pussy in heaven”
and I frowned.
you woke me up sniffling incessantly into the back of my head,
I said “you should blow your nose.”
“too sleepy,” you said.
“you should really blow your nose."
“I don’t think so,” you said.
“I’m in bed with the sniffle super villain,” I said,
and then you licked my armpit.
absolutely nothing needs to make sense in the bed,
and furthermore nothing should.
I see now that the bed is a symbol of being endlessly enthused
about not making sense,
about pouring water on you for no reason and laughing for almost every reason
after I've maliciously accused you of pissing in my bed,
about defiantly refusing to let reason inform anything in us.
we most triumphantly "[stuck] it to the man" when i was suffocating you
with my pillow and you pretended to die,
but my happiness when you sprung back to life was extremely real.
you said I left a hand print in the snow bank of your heart;
I peered at you and wrote it down,