It Was Just a Pillow

Last week I was off visiting my nephew and enjoy his company so I never was able to sit and write, so I just may post multiple posts this week as a sign of good faith. For now though, I give you a bit of un-rhyming, unhappy prose that I've titled: It Was Just a Pillow

It was just a pillow.

A cotton filled, cotton bag, with a cotton cover around it. Admittedly it was longer than normal pillows, a body pillow, but it was no body... It was just a pillow.

I knew it wouldn't be excited to see me, sad to watch me leave, kiss me good night, shout at me when I made a mistake... It was just a pillow.

I knew it wasn't going to cuddle with me during movies, or wipe the tears from my eyes, it wouldn't hold my hand, or eat dinner with me by candle light... It was just a pillow.

Every night as I laid in bed, I would reach for that pillow, that almost human thing, and I would pull it close knowing that it was just a pillow.

Even when I coughed and groaned, as sickness took hold of me, I pulled that pillow to me ever so tight knowing that it was just a pillow.

Even as the storms came and made me whimper in cowardice, I clutched the pillow ever tighter, knowing that it was just a pillow.

Still I wish it could be more, I wish my pillow could speak to me and sing soft words. I wish my pillow would hold me in it's arms as I cried. I wish my pillow would listen to my woes and offer advice. I wish my pillow wasn't just a pillow.

I wish I could sleep without wondering what my life will bring. I wish I could dream without looking into the fears of my heart. I wish I could dance with a lover as the world ends. I wish for once I could just let the world in. I wish my pillow wasn't just a pillow.

But none of that will ever come to pass because it's nothing real. It has the luxury of not feeling my punches, hearing my screams of frustration, I didn't want to see it as such, as just a beaten cotton bag, but my heart still broke knowing it was just a pillow.