Two Pillows

There are two pillows on my bed.
I lay there now, my head on one.
Looking over, the other pillow stares back at me.
Accusing, empty, functionless.
I sigh and remember better times.

I remember your body next to mine.
I remember the smell, the feel, and the warmth of you lying next to me.
I remember you sleeping, moaning, and crying on this bed.

It was on this bed we made love.
It was on this bed we fought.
And it was on this bed we slept.
Hell, it's fitting, that on this bed, we ended.

A simple construction of wood and cloth.
But so much more to me.
It is more than a bed.
It is a place we went for comfort.
For cold days in winter.
For playful days in spring.
For lazy days in summer.
For rainy days in fall.

On this bed, we left the world behind.
The stress, the worry, the pain.
We left it behind us as a memory.
Here, in this bed, we had our own universe to explore.
We had everything we needed.
We had each other, love, and nothing else.

But I screwed it all up.
We sat down on this bed as a couple.
Then you got up, and left.
I sat, and felt numb.
You were gone before the tear rolled down.
That one tear was my allowed weakness.

And now my bed seems too large.
It is as empty and forlorn as a desert.
The clean white sheets form dunes.
Without someone else with me, the bed swallows me whole.

I lie here.
Alone.
And stare at the other pillow.
It's cold, clean, and unblemished.
Unused, desolate, and formless.

I turn my head away from that second pillow.
But that pillow will always be a part of me.
That second pillow, upon which your head would lie…

Was not a pillow of cloth and down, but my heart.