The bed looms before me,
Vast and soft.
Its malleable topography retains no trace of you,
Though my imprint is permanent.
Have I dented yours?

I sleep, dissatisfied.
You are not beside me.

Is there an outline of my shape on your bed?
I tried my best to make one.
I squirmed and burrowed and made myself heavy.
There was a problem, though.
Your arm was between me and the mattress,
Breaking up the memory.