A poem in bed

 
 
The sheets fold like paper,  
soft against skin, heavy with dreams.  
A book rests in open palms,  
its spine breathing in the hush of midnight.  
 
Words spill like ink across the quiet,  
syllables curling into candlelight,  
each line a bridge between waking  
and the endless drift into thought.  
 
The best poem waits in whispers,  
threading itself through fingertips,  
drawing the mind deeper  
into the lull of imagined echoes.  
 
The letters pulse, alive in their rhythm,  
the room shrinking to the space  
between one stanza and the next,  
the poet’s voice becoming mine.  
 
Outside, the world hushes its hunger,  
but here, beneath the weight of blankets,  
the verses hold infinity,  
a story circling back to its own breath.  
 
I turn the page,  
find myself reading  
the poem I’ve always known,
the one about this moment,  
about a poet in bed,  
reading the best poem  
about a poet in bed  
reading a poem.