The Dichotomy of the Bed

It's funny how you can both love and hate something.
My treasured enemy is the bed.
Eventually, I get tired enough to go to sleep.
I walk into my bedroom and turn on the lights.
And there it is...emptiness.
I pause before I climb in.
Staring at the void of human companionship.
I sigh hard and lower my head.
Nobody there to welcome me.
Nobody there to comfort me.
Just another inanimate object made for human luxury.
The sudden chill of air-cooled blankets
Reminds me of absence still.
My body lays flat upon the bed.
Instead of loving arms clinging to me waist,
The soft and unfeeling blanket wraps around me.
A single tear finds its way down my cheek.
And then another...and another still.
I find my arms holding the blanket.
Like that of another being.
My, my love, my queen.
I sigh once more and close my eyes.
And again my mind and soul is subject
To the agony of darkening skies.
The trumpet call of sleep brings me home.
My shattered mind succumbs to the falling of the sand.
Amusement and uncertainty my dreams bring me.

Morning light makes its way upon my eyelids.
Summoning forth my weakened state.
The body struggles against awareness.
Having tasted the bittersweet darkness.
But the stangely dichotomous relationship
Of the bed presents itself.
The promise of a new day?
Joy, its meaning known to thee,
And its affects foreign to me.
Humanity was not meant to be bliss
From orange to orange.
But the very things that are meant to
Life our spirits away from worldy troubles,
Their service, for me...refuse.
The bed in which I agonized over before,
Is now the source of my comfort.
I dare not leave its empty grasp on me.