at the end of the bed

there are flowers sewn deep into the fabric of a fluffy spread duvet,

scented like vanilla and soft skin.

pillows holding close in their down the words said in sleepiness,

promises disguised as dreams.

that voice of quiet determination trapped in these four walls,

ivory smooth under my finger tips,

laughter hidden in the mattress.

for here, there is honesty,

understanding.

total clarity.

and in the morning,

as the kettle boils and the deep smell of cheap coffee fills my nostrils,

you’ll never want a cup but i will always ask.

there will always be a t shirt or two,

like a signature of understanding,

at the end of the bed,

for me and you.

Categories: Poetry

Imy Brighty-Potts

I am the founder and editor of The Hysteria Collective, poetry writer, play lover and Philosophy and Politics graduate. Hobbies include wine, cheese and coffee. @imybrightypotts on Twitter. @imyiswriting on Instagram.

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