Photography
You’re just passing through
You feel it the first night.
That gentle slope toward the center,
like the bed wants to hold you.
Two people slept here for years.
Maybe twenty years.
Maybe forty.
Long enough to leave their shape behind,
pressed into the mattress
like a handprint in wet cement.
You roll toward the middle without meaning to.
It’s not uncomfortable. Just different.
Like sleeping in someone else’s life for a night.
In the morning you make the bed,
smooth the sheets,
try to erase yourself.
But the dip is still there.
Waiting for them.
Or for the next person.
Or for you to come back.