We shared a Murphy wall bed in our first apartment
then graduated to a house and a queen,
framed Toulouse-Lautrec’s “The Kiss” positioned above:
a bedded couple face to face, wrapped in each others arms, 
a palette of yellow and red fading to pale blue, gray, green. 
Fifty years later we visited them in the D’Orsay.

Quilts, linens, mattresses firm, foam, orthopedic 
changed over the years, but “The Kiss” remained. 
An electric blanket with dual controls, switched, 
he turning the temperature down, me turning it up 
through one long night.

Restless legs, trips to the bathroom, tossing, turning
for a comfortable position, waking, disturbing each other. 
Then separate bedrooms.
Some mornings he visits me in the queen.

On a recent short vacation, we share a king.
After one sleepless night, I move four floors down,
bed size of a Murphy and seven hours sleep.
Waking, I thought I’ll take the elevator to 812, lie down 
beside him, talk of how we slept, what it was like to have 
separate hotel rooms, pretend we’re under assumed 
names in a clandestine affair. Young again.