Poetry Feature: The Stranger in My Bed

There is a stranger in my bed.

they linger in soft whispers,
in the space i leave beside me
without thinking,
in the careful turns i make
before sleep takes hold.

in my dreams, we build rooms.
the windows look out
onto places i almost remember.

when we walk,
they lean into me
as though i am the one
who might disappear.

their fingers pick at their skin.
i look down.
my hands are doing the same.

we leave sentences unfinished.
somehow, they stay whole.

sometimes i think i’ve met them.
sometimes i think i’ve been them.

but morning comes,
and the room is only a room.

i lie still,
trying to remember
which version of me
was supposed to wake up.