Pillow Talk

He hasn't left me, no he is still alive.
I keep him here in my heart and my mind.
I don't miss his hugs, I keep them nearby.
In the form of a pillow that he used by and by.
He was quiet, a brooding gentle storm.
Harmless, no matter how everyone did scorn.
If they had seen him as I did, how I still do.
Perhaps they would know as I know is true.
The pillow beside me holds the broken promises,
The promises of a boy who died before his time.

Dead, but his body still walks. The one I loved no longer exists, replaced by one who fell out of love as easily as the boy had fallen in love. Did he love me, once upon a time? He cannot recall, or so he says. He remembers not the years we had, the late night skype calls and early morning cheer. But how can he forget what I remember so clear? That is how I know he has died, that someone else uses his name.

If he holds no love, at least he isn't cruel. A young person who makes mistakes, no different from you or I. Someone I saw a life with, a life that faded before my eyes. It wasn't fair, but then life is never fair. It's cruel and Cupid performs the cruelest of hoaxes. Yet I can hope he is happy, as happy as I. If ever I should lose my memory, there is one moment I wish to retain. The homecoming night I spent in isolation at a dance, wishing he were there. The simple joy of returning home, of playing our song, of slow dancing with "his" pillow and pretending it was him. Of reuniting with him that night, if only for a while. If age should take my memory, I give the rest freely, but let me retain the memory of the dance I never had.