of tossing the chevron throw pillow
from my bed to the floor
even on nights I’m sleeping alone

I stretch across the entire Queen size mattress
press my body against the cool white of my other pillow
pretending it could be some body, your body
perhaps, sometimes finding myself

thankful that it is not. In my mind
we have already dated –
showered together, read books, cooked dinner.
I’ve eaten macaroons with your mother
taught your sister how to knit.

In my mind I’ve already imagined
you let my dogs leash drag on the ground,
I get jealous of your best friend,
you think Bukowski was a feminist.


We’ve broken up, blocked each other’s numbers.
I already made a spotify playlist of heart break,
have already tired of the songs.

So when you come after midnight,
and toss my throw pillow to make room for yourself on the bed
I already know where it will land on the floor beneath my window.
I’ve already practiced picking it up
to place it back on the bed in the morning.