He changed the sheets while I was asleep, turning me over and pushing me to the side so he could pull them underneath, over, and put the cases on the pillows. I barely remember it.
It's not for nostalgia's sake, not memory or sentiment, that I have failed to change them since. Pieces of his skin still creep into mine each night, but I don't feel him there. I don't pay attention. If I looked, I'd find hair and dried saliva. But my bed has fallen to one purpose, and I forget my dreams in the morning.
If I could gather twigs for my coffin, and bind them with string, upon surveying my work I'd think the same: _this is where I sleep_. And I would be proud, having forgotten the rest.
It's not for nostalgia's sake, not memory or sentiment, that I have failed to change them since. Pieces of his skin still creep into mine each night, but I don't feel him there. I don't pay attention. If I looked, I'd find hair and dried saliva. But my bed has fallen to one purpose, and I forget my dreams in the morning.
If I could gather twigs for my coffin, and bind them with string, upon surveying my work I'd think the same: _this is where I sleep_. And I would be proud, having forgotten the rest.
VIEW 13 of 13 COMMENTS
but I've been told
if that horse won't pull
you gotta carry the load