There is a pillow, there on the bed.
The pillow where she used to lay her head.
The pillow we slept, dreamed and played upon.
The pillow her breakfast in bed was placed on.
That same pillow she held tight.
The one she threw after the fight.
The one I held after she was gone.
The one I talked to wondering what went wrong.
There is a pillow , there on my bed.
The final witness of the wrong words said.