Of life she writes.

There’s a body on my bed.

It lays next to me in bed, watching me sleep.

It snores too loud and It’s shadow prevents me from seeing the light.

The body lays still, almost dead.

It moves a finger sometimes, maybe two. It could be the wind but I’m not really sure.

I talk to it but it must be mad because it says nothing back.

Sometimes I tell it my problems, and ask for advice.

It’s a good listener but it refuses to give advice, pity.

It used to make me happy.

When it moved, spoke, gave me warmth.

Now It’s still, quiet, cold.

It’s not that I don’t love it anymore, don’t get me wrong I do.

It’s just, how do you love something that’s……. Dead?

It lays there.

Unable to move, to give me affection.


I moved it to the far side of the bed…

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