Bedmates.

I’d fall asleep in your embrace, blissfully smothered by the smell of your deodorant. I drifted away as I dreamt, and with one early morning glimpse from across the mattress, you’d pull me into your arms again.

203.74 miles.

…just to be bedmates in the full-size mattress that lay lonely on the floor with hardly enough back support for the back pains I ignore. The sheets, though scarce, were not needed. We were bedmates.

That bed has become foreign, and I found a new mate in the roll of tissue I’ve stolen from the bathroom in the wee hours of the morning. I’ll return it before everyone wakes. Together, we lay in my Brooklyn bed, and I smother him with the makeup I’ve been too complacent to remove lately. I sit him on the nightstand as I dream, stealing just enough to lay on my pillow and catch the tears that fall in my sleep. And before the sun comes up, I pull him close for one last embrace before returning him to his bathroom post. I hate these memories of being your bedmate.

Months later, I lay in my bed, sniffling uncontrollably as I wipe water from my eyes. I keep reminiscing. I don’t miss the days of being your bedmate, though the memories are so vivid. Once again, I’m forced to steal the tissue and make it my bedmate. But finally, the tissue I’m stealing isn’t wiping up tears from you.

I hope this cold goes away soon.