World Traveler.

This morning you called my name as you closed the door.

I woke up and made myself breakfast. The same thing as always -- toast with jam, no butter. Butter always makes my throat shake.

Afterwards, I sank into the couch to prepare for the day. 

The couch got bigger and wider, longer and deeper. I crawled inside of it. I cloaked it around my body and bathed in it. The pillows turned to life rafts, the ground turned to lava. 

I played games in there. I talked to you. I touched myself. I sailed it across the Mediterranean in search of my ancestry. The waters were treacherous and when I finished my harrowing journey, there was nobody there. They'd all died long ago. I was the only one left. 

I pitched a tent on it and camped in the Sahara. I smoked hash and dreamed of my mother.

I opened it up and created a coffin. I buried myself in it and spoke my own eulogy. The crowd couldn't stop crying and pointing. I giggled to myself.

It turned into your bed and there you were, putting your hands on me. Your bed started to shake like an earthquake but the walls stayed still. The deeper you went, the farther I followed. I slipped off the edge and burned up alive. 

The couch became my blood and surged through my veins, vicing itself around my heart, stinging my throat, pulling me back to safety.

I sank into the darkest corners and held on. My arms stayed pinned to my sides, my eyes stayed wide open. But the couch swallowed me up and took me away.