Couch

Instead of fighting it –

my feet free and spread out

underneath expanses of cold comforter –

I embrace it. I crash on couch cushions

made from the fabric of the dead,

and my shoulder aches for it.

It aches for you.

You find no sleep in normalcy,

no sleep in the strike of midnight.

Sleep instead finds you and drags you

unwilling with mouth agape and limbs curled up –

and then beside you it finds me.

Sleep and I are friends like old lovers leisurely laced together

with knowing glances and plans to meet,

and Sleep understands why I am here tonight.

There is a love of mine flash frozen on the floor,

unnaturally positioned, at my feet,

from where Sleep snuck in to steal him

and I am here because there is no other place for me.

The contortion

of arms and legs all stiff

and unwieldy

from sleeping on our sofa

is a price I’ll pay to have our skin

kept safe in shared slumber.