Pillow Befriending

You wait for me at midnight,
soft confidant,
when the house is a hollow drum
and silence hums like a distant train.
I press my cheek to your cotton skin,
and the dreams begin.

and the nocturnal doors swing open—
faces bloom like bruised roses:
the friend who sang in July heat,
the cousin who vanished after one brittle Christmas,
their voices now thin as wind
scraping through winter branches.

Each year, the circle loosens,
January’s promises unravel by March,
and December counts ghosts instead of guests,

Life’s ledger of absences.

I see them in sleep:
Their eyes bright as streetlights.
Their words warm as bread,
until the dream tilts and those who turned away
stand mute,
their mouths locked like corroded gates.

You know this ache, Pillow,
how it throbs in the dark,
the weight of birthdays missed,
the sting of calls unanswered,

their silence louder than any goodbye.

Yet in the hush,
there is mercy:
my old dog pads through the dream,
tail wagging like a metronome of joy,
his fur a memory of summer fields.
He never left,
not really—
he curls beside me now,
ghost-breath sweet as clover.

Pillow of mine…

When the alarm splits the dawn,
I’ll smile into your quiet folds,
whispering to him still:
Good boy… good boy,
as the day begins
and the world forgets
to speak…again,

I’ll give the air of you a good pat and rub,

reminding myself again,

You are man’s best friend.