A Shallow Attempt At Something Meaningful.

We lie, completely truthful in our beds of words. My bed is lonely this night. My bed lies empty, my bed lies quite well about being quite well.

If my sheets could speak, they'd tell you secrets. They tell you of battles fought and lost and won. If my pillow had words, it'd tell you of dreams and nightmares that even I do not remember. cannotwillnot 

My bed, so lonesome in its forgotten corner. It would weep tears of fluff, floating down onto a cold floor as I write words of witty wonder and witless humor. As I lie, I forget to lie and in its stead lie instead about warm words murmured to stuffed loves.

I'll keep this up for another two weeks, before I lie again.