This Bed

This bed is different without you. I'm not used
to its silence, inactivity nor to its bed sheets
and pillows over it well-arranged.

My body sinking into it is not the same
as yours sinking into it too. I prefer it to be
creaking, overflowing with sounds, sensual

while the full moon peeks through our curtain,
perhaps wondering what we are up to.
I prefer it to be disorderly

when we play love's games, the blanket removed,
exposing our skin to the moon, so that she
may envy us, as she outlines your curves.

I prefer that you fill it with your sound bite
in every corner, in the pillows, in the bed sheet,
with each space locking your scent, your laughter.

Let us fill it with groans,
and mix it with passion so intense,
the bed will ignite a brilliant glow.

This bed is different without you.
I am not used to space draped with loneliness.
The blanket is not as warm as you,

from where you would have been
staring at me with the moon in your eyes.