One side of the bed
I still sleep on my side,
as if a ghost lingers in the sheets,
as if the empty space
still belongs to someone else.
A king-sized bed
and yet I curl myself small,
pressed to the edge
like love might spill over
if I dared to stretch.
But this is my bed now.
The silence, the space, the warmth—
all mine to claim.
One day I’ll roll wide,
sprawl diagonal,
let the night hold me without shadows.
Until then,
I honor the habit of a heart
still learning what it means
to be alone,
but also,
to belong wholly to itself.
