You are the girl that sits with me,
the mirage of long blonde hair thrown over your shoulder,
Shoulders alittle too wide for your liking
But,
To me, perfect.
The perfect place to set my palm, or my head, or my words.
You kept them soft.
All of me, soft.
For moments.
For months.
For years.
It never ended, that spot on your shoulder,
The way I felt about it.
The way I felt about you.
You
are not that girl anymore.
And I
do not need a shoulder..
But the pillows still feel like you at night.
The brush you used to comb my hair with
still soothes me, even though the needles
have long been thrown away.

You don't understand.
And I wish you would.
Maybe if you knew,
You would return, just once.
Let me rest on your shoulder just one more time.
If anything, just to prove that the shape has changed.
That maybe your arms have been scarred with the ink of your husband's tattoos.
Or that they have become muscular with the weight of carrying your newborn son.
Maybe I could say goodbye, then,
If I could feel that they had changed,
And you along with it.
But I can't.
And you don't.
And my pillows still feel like you.

So
I fall asleep every night,
Still dreaming of your arms.

Maybe one day
You

Will decide

To release me.