theres something obscene about an unmade bed.
walking into someones room and seeing the covers pulled back, the pillow bunched and forgotten at the foot of the bed, is like walking into a crime scene. here the evidence of a violent night of dreaming, there the outline of the victim in repose, their body supine and unguarded, soft from sleep. all of the gruesome details of privacy are spread out, unwrapped like a gift no one is prepared to accept, and you have to turn away, look at anything else other than the crumpled sheets with their tell-tale depressions and peaks. an unmade bed screams, yells, cries out. people get lost and people come back to each other, fighting or fucking or stealing the covers. someone has cold feet, gets up, pads to the bathroom and can't find the light. someone spills water or stubs their toe on the frame, muffling their curses because it's late and love is resting and should not be disturbed. someone else is alone in bed for the first time in years and can't sleep. in the morning it's all the same, everywhere. it all evens out to an unmade bed, and you still don't know where to look.





p.s ifuckinloveyou