Wet Linen

The act of laying. There's something about it that says surrender.
It's the only thing that will hold you in your free fall, the spreads, their texture, their scent. The pillow, how your head begs to be molded, sometimes so hard, burrying itself into it, with an unconfessed hope of disappearing into it, merging with the bed, to unite into a whole, in hope for enjoying the perks of being an object for a while. Somehow, the hope is so strong, your corpse lets go of consciousness.
Some other times, you merge on another level, exchanging parts & chunks of you. Your eyes water the linen, and the linen breathes into your nostrils, you feel it through your throbbing chest, no talk yet you confess it all, only through your body.
The way you interrupt your breath trying to numb it out, you know it works good at censoring any noticeable sound. You're a professional silent crier. Usually what follows is squeezing your eyes, or sending a rush of tingles to your scalp. You haven't slept in a long time, but you're too unfulfilled to shut an eye.