Letter to my Bed

Dear Bed,

It is about twelve hours later that I have returned to you, on a holiday. Unnatural, yes. You have seen many of the 'dears', have you not? Perhaps the only evidence of who turned from a simple dear to a complex dearer. I am glad that you extend your embrace beyond me to all those who come in contact with you and eventually detest leaving you behind. You take over my awkwardness. I have heard many a people mention it on various occasions that there is something oddly nice about this old, sturdy you. I guess we call it affection.

I am having to write to you because I owe you a million shades of gratitude. Like the breeze that makes the winter sun pleasantly bearable, your presence is that which facilitates many a emotion -- tiredness, sadness, sorrow, confusion, warmth, love, lust -- uncouthly concretely. You are the horizontal which is the plane for all dimensions to take off. There have been innumerous stories exchanged, and unending experiences incurred. You made it all possible. 

I want my daughter to have her initial rolls on you. I think you achieved immortality when you were complimented by a certain someone in "I wish this bed could travel". You are why my backbone is at home, you are why my backbone is able to take on the world.

From the past that you box, to the future that you cannot,

K.