the faces of people are too alive
for my empathy to thrive.

haggard attempts to feel sad,
in the faces of people who are losing and have lost,
in the faces of people of loss,
in the faces of people.

but on the bed's ledge,
the pillow with it's stitching unravelling,
oh, it pushes over the edge.

the people of loss
have nothing on us,
pillows with unravelling floss.

only the pillow knows,
a pedestal for weakness,
our shared bygones.