surrender to your peace
My bed calls to me, warm and loving, from upstairs. Sleep, sleep, the siren song of soft susurration sings to me.
I don't have the time; I don't have the hours and hours it would require to indulge this fascination. I have the will to resist this intense attraction, though I almost wish I didn't.
Some of my best times have been spent in a bed, and I don't mean just sexually, although certainly those moments rank right up there-but there's just something about the comfort of blankets covering, surrounded by cushiony pillows that prompts intimacy.
Far away lovers:
Hello, darling, I would whisper quietly to Joe, the words loud in the darkness. I insinuated myself into the warmth he radiated, gently liberating enough of the coverings to shelter myself and then kiss him softly. And then I would fall asleep, finally, secure in the knowledge that he was near.
I miss him, so much.
Lost friends:
Laughter and merriment from our lips, smiling and gesturing, close enough that our shoulders touched, sharing the same duvet: Alena and I had one of the best conversations of our lives, just a few months ago, lying on her bed. We were sleepy, but not overwhelmingly so-though we've slept together on her bed in the past for a refreshing nap, we both found a great deal more of enjoyment that day sharing all of the little things we'd noticed about the world around us with each other, more so than even we would've found in sleep.
I miss her, so much.
A scene that repeats itself far too often:
Cradling the phone to my ear, I whisper endearments, but the only touch that cradles me is that of the springs of the mattress beneath me. The only warmth I feel comes residually from myself, disseminated throughout the covers and giving, giving, giving into the heatsink that is the cold house I live in.
But bed is warm, and comfortable, and though I share it with no one (at least not at the moment), I know it waits patiently for the return of such pretty intimacies as once my mattress was privy to. I know that no matter what happens to me throughout the day, my bed patiently waits for me to sink into it at night.
And I will close with a poem written by the best, Ms Dorothy Parker.:
Inscription for the
Ceiling of a Bedroom
Daily dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Learn a little, here and there,
Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,
Hear a song, or watch a stage,
Leave some words upon a page,
Claim a foe, or hail a friend-
Bed awaits me at the end.
Though I go in pride and strength,
I'll come back to bed at length.
Though I walk in blinded woe,
Back to bed I'm bound to go.
High my heart, or bowed my head,
All my days but lead to bed.
Up, and out, and on; and then
Ever back to bed again,
Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall-
I'm a fool to rise at all!
(This has been a collaborative for Februarium.)
I don't have the time; I don't have the hours and hours it would require to indulge this fascination. I have the will to resist this intense attraction, though I almost wish I didn't.
Some of my best times have been spent in a bed, and I don't mean just sexually, although certainly those moments rank right up there-but there's just something about the comfort of blankets covering, surrounded by cushiony pillows that prompts intimacy.
Far away lovers:
Hello, darling, I would whisper quietly to Joe, the words loud in the darkness. I insinuated myself into the warmth he radiated, gently liberating enough of the coverings to shelter myself and then kiss him softly. And then I would fall asleep, finally, secure in the knowledge that he was near.
I miss him, so much.
Lost friends:
Laughter and merriment from our lips, smiling and gesturing, close enough that our shoulders touched, sharing the same duvet: Alena and I had one of the best conversations of our lives, just a few months ago, lying on her bed. We were sleepy, but not overwhelmingly so-though we've slept together on her bed in the past for a refreshing nap, we both found a great deal more of enjoyment that day sharing all of the little things we'd noticed about the world around us with each other, more so than even we would've found in sleep.
I miss her, so much.
A scene that repeats itself far too often:
Cradling the phone to my ear, I whisper endearments, but the only touch that cradles me is that of the springs of the mattress beneath me. The only warmth I feel comes residually from myself, disseminated throughout the covers and giving, giving, giving into the heatsink that is the cold house I live in.
But bed is warm, and comfortable, and though I share it with no one (at least not at the moment), I know it waits patiently for the return of such pretty intimacies as once my mattress was privy to. I know that no matter what happens to me throughout the day, my bed patiently waits for me to sink into it at night.
And I will close with a poem written by the best, Ms Dorothy Parker.:
Inscription for the
Ceiling of a Bedroom
Daily dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Learn a little, here and there,
Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,
Hear a song, or watch a stage,
Leave some words upon a page,
Claim a foe, or hail a friend-
Bed awaits me at the end.
Though I go in pride and strength,
I'll come back to bed at length.
Though I walk in blinded woe,
Back to bed I'm bound to go.
High my heart, or bowed my head,
All my days but lead to bed.
Up, and out, and on; and then
Ever back to bed again,
Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall-
I'm a fool to rise at all!
(This has been a collaborative for Februarium.)