The Bed Still Remembers You

Naked. Hard. Haunted by the ghost of your skin, with Morrissey singing me to sleep I don’t want.

I’m lying here, after.
Not after enough. Not after you. Just after myself.

Naked. Hard.
The kind of hard that doesn’t want release, just your mouth, your weight, the press of you against me until the rest of the world breaks.

I wrapped a towel but it feels like a lie. Thin cloth pretending at modesty when every cell of me is begging for your kiss. For that slow mercy you give when you finally lean down and claim me like you mean it.

And there’s Asleep in the background. Morrissey whispering lullabies about surrender, about giving in, about closing your eyes and letting the ache become holy. It’s not a love song, not really. It’s a funeral in a bedroom. A hymn for the moments when your body burns and nobody comes to save you.

Except I can still smell you on the sheets. The air still tastes like your mouth. The room remembers you better than I do.

I’d give up everything if you walked back in. The future, the plan, the pride I pretend to have — all of it. Just for your body over mine, one more time.

I don’t want to fall asleep.
I just want you to ruin me awake.

And the cruelest part is the bed still remembers you better than I do.

// Scorpio Veil