here you see me clinging to this heated pillow.
it isn’t anyone, but it’s good enough
this pillow doesn’t talk.
it doesn’t remind me that it’s already 3 o’ clock.
it doesn’t accidentally punch me in its sleep or tell me to move over.
it doesn’t smell like him because it is new.
it is small, warm, and sufficient
it’ll take my snot and my tears, my silent curses,
any other grumblings and soak it all up.
i don’t feel guilty about making it a mess
because this pillow is mine.
it keeps me company during these hard times.
i lay here in the lines of lonely loving
and muffle my miserable mumbling.
i might try to write crappy poetry to him later,
littered in shitty alliteration.
only this pillow will be here to listen.
i won’t have to ask anyone else