The sheets are tangled like my mind, a mess of whispers left behind, the pillow talks, the mattress sighs. I hear the creak, the wood complains, a symphony of secret games. In my bed, where the stories grow, in my bed, where the hours slow, in my bed, where the truth can’t hide, in my bed, where the world collides. Blankets pulled like walls of a fort, dreams play tennis on a mental court, the ceiling stares, it knows my sins. In the bed, we fight, we fall, in the bed, we’ve seen it all, a universe in cotton and thread, every truth weaves through this bed. In my bed, where the stories grow, in my bed, where the hours slow, in my bed, where the truth can’t hide, in my bed, where the world collides.
