Little Mikey

This is little Mikey. We still sleep together, kind of. He makes his way into my bed just about every night, sometimes for a second in thought, even from as far and obscure place as that of a once before closet experience. He has one big eye, appropriately so, because he believes himself to be all knowing, even when he’s wrong which he often is.

It’s that doubt, the not really knowing but wanting to believe and have our way struggle that binds us. It is the what-if-I-were-wrong factor, the high-roll gamble of our hearts. And of course all the nights we slept together. We can’t deny the carnal addictive safety blanket like filth of sharing beds. Nothing compares to emotional self assurance like knowing someone else isn’t really bothered by the pool of drool you’ve left behind. Nothing like a cute swollen face and, well you know, in the morning.

Little Mikey, if only you ceased to be a polyester-cotton mix, grew two eyes, making you less myopic, a better dreamer, much less doubtful, lost the devilish horns which match that wicked, sarcastic, and loved forked tongue of yours and those little feet that always turn cold and keep you from my grasp. Only then would I not mind all the room you take up in my bed. Where you, know damn well, belong.

Link to your very own little monster in bed.