This bed is warm.

The vent hums, her voice droning

dully soothing.

Springs creak under my weight.

Headphones dig uncomfortably, music

tinny

spills into my ears.

Can't sleep with it

but rest is far more elusive without.

My roommate, everpresent

a constant, in-my-space face

is quiet.

She dreams 

and, if i listen,

I hear her breathing.

My bed is warm.

Still

I crave  warmth by my side.

The too-small mattress

is vast

when I am not sharing shoving shifting

waking

to his broad back, soft-spined, rising, falling 

pressed to my chest.

This room 

does not smell like home.

My dad's house doesn't either.

I carry home

slung on my shoulders,

wrapped in a thin sheet 

of my own skin.