What You Left Behind

by Shaun Terry

Sad Bed

A bed twice the size it need be.
It’s lumpy;
a divot takes the shape of a shriveled, hollowed out man.

I live mostly in that bed.

I lie awake,
dreaming of realities
that faded with springtime,
that became unmoored from reality,
leaving distorted fantasies of fairy tales
that failed to come to fruition
in the foamy residue of abandonment.

I traverse the horrid deathscape
that was to be our endless, nourishing playplace.
I’m missing meals,
savagely ravaging others’ bodies,
instead of experiencing
reflective loving discovery,
instead of gentle melding,
instead of inextricable, admirative fusion.
The essential in each of us was intertwined.
Our most fantastic fantasies
had reified in our font
of admiration, understanding, curiosity, and optimism.

The impossible unwinding was my undoing,
arresting chunks of soul and psyche,
forever lost in edgeless, brutal pale horizons.

Eventually, I sleep in this bed
to escape the nightmare that is waking life.

When I wake up,
I reach my hand out
and it fills with shriveled, hollowed out air.

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