She thought about him when wrapped up like this,

in the warm blanket where his outline left its creases,

the lines written there in patches on the soft velvet,

telling tales she wanted kept hidden deep beneath it.

She wanted to abide by that decision she made,

for she made it with a certainty that appeared fresh,

that promised even the quietest corners of her heart,

of her ability to let go, go away, go on with her life.

Go on with her life like it always had been before,

before recognizing the layers beneath the weight,

of blankets and sheets torn from the bed and hanging,

loose and random but too late to pretend it was unseen.

Remembrance the coward clinging to your turning back,

whispering in your ears of what could and couldn’t be,

in its opened hands a thousand lives you’ve left not lived,

marks and cuts burned in a ring of regrets upon your chest.

Bow down to it before you sleep again on that same bed,

wrapping yourself up in the intentions of a romantic soul,

kept cozy with impossibilities lining the rose-covered walls,

and a madness from desire leaving actions bound and gagged.