Deep in memory foam,
I could have sworn I felt you.

The index and the middle hiking up a shoulder,
Catching a view past brunette strings to window folders.
Golden slivers make a home where the thought used to count,
While the rain leaves the cranium reflecting in a drought.

A field of plastic rests where you used to be,
And I hug every single piece closer to me.
And if I hold each one of them long and tight,
It's like the skin never left that night.

I will hear your bones scratching for keys,
Carrying each ring over cigarette burnt seas.
You'll find me drowning and resurfacing from my dreams,
Shipwrecked on a raft made of polyurethane and memories.

Every white bump we used to count in any weather,
Now merely constellations we'll never shape together.
All the fictional backlash that echoed from the walls,
Bleeds out a fable and falls.

Returning with a bottle yet again,
And this is what you call confidence.
Disguising glass with see through hands,
But I still don't understand.

I'm a moth asking light hearted questions,
Answer me then-
What do you think of,
Love or the idea.