Have you ever rested on a pillow
and wondered
whose head has rested there before?
Whose strands of blonde hair are caught
in the side zipper?
Whose body wrapped around it,
a snuggled head,
a little bit of drool,
the remnants of foolish love,
of heartbreak,
of her home before she knew him?
She left that pillow for you,
so you could rest your head
on what’s left of her,
a piece of
false comfort,
a pillow she used to love,
before time wore it into
faded fabric, unwashed,
the scent of her so intertwined in thread—
you couldn’t even tell
she had been there.