Soft Men Don't Stay

He is a pillow of a man.  I touch him and he is soft.  He looks at me and I feel comfort; it is nice – enough.  I never wanted to leave him.  I could have slept with him under my head forever.  I could have inhaled that fresh, lazy linen scent from his skin until my remaining days became remaining hours.  But he left.  He became filthy at the seams.  Unhealthy for my lungs, I would breathe in the remnants of leftover makeup and sweat left on the cloth.  He is now gone.

            I now sleep on a bare mattress with myself alone to comfort me. When I was a child, I would sleep with a skimpy knitted blanket to keep me warm at night.  Now that is gone.  And so is he.  I am bare.  Some nights are more difficult than others; sometimes I feel the chill of his absence so harshly that it rattles me awake, forcing a shiver through my bones.  Some nights I feel the glow of the moon gently wash over my skin, comforting me the way he used to.  Some nights I rejoice in the solitude of my own independence.  Tonight, though, I imagine him under the head of some other woman, cleaner and fresher than he was with me.  I imagine her pulling him close and inhaling that scent which smells like safety.  I am safe no more, but safety is for the frail, and I am not frail.  I am the bed frame that keeps things together – I support myself.