Fistful of Dreams

We share a bed,
finding new games to decide who sleeps in the middle each night,
everything ranging from rocks-paper-scissor to a simple roll of the dice.
The winner gets to choose the sleeping positions for all three,
and we are yet to learn if this victory comes laced with privilege or irony.

The right side of the bed, the shortest in length, is the worst,
our legs dangle throughout the night like dandelions lost in the wind,
This bed is big enough for two of us,
which is why we have mastered the art of cuddling,
holding on to each other like hostages in our own house,
too scared to let go for the fear of falling out.

We now know what each other’s farts smell like,
who can hide lullabies in the rhythm of their snores,
and whose nightmares leave limbs shaking from terror.
We have traced the outlines of our bodies,
slowly inching towards the epitome of comfort in our crayon box sized world.
We fall asleep to laughs and giggles,
and secrets kept hidden for another day,
always forgetting about the headboard and the edges that confine us.
There is no bed big enough for three hearts anyway,
why should bodies be any different?

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