reflection on ‘le lit’ by henri toulouse-lautrec
you open the door and at once feel like you’re intruding. two quiet figures lie in a bed; you cannot tell yet if they are sleeping or waking, but they have the air of dreaming about them. nestled deep in the blankets, their heads rest on white/yellow/green pillows like halos against dark, tousled hair. the headboard, orange like a rising sun or a fresh egg yolk, rises above the pillows, and the sheets are a soft, murmuring river, twisting and blue across the bed. you begin to leave, and their eyes open slowly; they do not see you as you quietly exit, only hazy morning visions of each other.