Thursday Morning

Mar 11, 2008 - 00:44 AM PST

A pillow engulfed in crimson
lies on my ever-empty bed.
It contrasts to the dark denim
that protects it from intruders
and envelopes lovers.
No longer does it possess the scent
that used to casually linger-
the scent of aftershave,
the scent of him.
Sheets that have been washed,
changed, washed, and changed again
are what inhabit
this tired mattress now.
Blond wood frames still stand erect
although only needing to house one.