I’m not falling out of love

our bed is disaster even when made. the metal underbelly of the futon gives way creating a divet in the middle. i crawl in to feel

the mattress, too-thin, its lumps where the frame crosses underneath. i remember its stains beneath the sheets; i don’t know who else slept in it 

before me. one pillow is mine, a childhood relic. two are soft and full shams i don’t let us sleep on, objects stripped of their utility. we couldn’t fit

the boxspring up the stairs at our last apartment, curbed it and haven’t had one since. we talk about replacing it 

but never manage to. our quilt was pieced together by my great grandmother eighty years ago. the squares are coming loose, but i fumble

with the embroidery when i try to fix it, imagining that i stitched it myself. i rip the tags off the pillowcases and drop them 

to the floor. the cold picks them up and crawls into bed beside me. the frame heaves with the weight as we curl up 

together. i get goosebumps when it brushes my neck with its lips. it folds the tags and tucks them into my hand, begs me to remember how much i was willing 

to spend for appearances. i let go, arch my back as it runs hands down my legs, moan Oh as it nibbles at my ears. i bury my face in its chest, knowing that we’re the same

cold