Lie On Me

My bed has its own terrain,
the duvet is crumpled so that
it resembles the hinterland of Kabul,
the ravaged bed sheet
has creases that form
fences through arable land.

My bed has seen wars,
we’ve had many here you’ll recall,
from when we first took pity
on each other, till now
with the erection of
our own Maginot line.

My bed has pieces of you and me,
and the ones I have forgotten,
our skin, our juice
will rest in this archive,
a time capsule that has
gone terribly wrong.

My bed is staying here,
but I am moving on,
someone else will lie on us,
another will add to our flakes,
pressing all of us together
whilst they sleep at war.