The Fearful Middle

In my bed there are memories in the middle, things I'm careful not to touch. I skirt around them and push myself into the corners, keeping the black at a safe distance from my toes that push the edges. I make the bed without looking down, fearful of what I'll see. Things that are no longer there. Things that still haunt and torment me in their absence. But it is the absence that was always there that hurts the most.