I pretend the pillow next to me still holds your shape.
I pretend that comfy mass is you, safely wrapping me up,
Enfolding me within you while I dream.
I pretend you still need me, or even want to
Need me. I pretend that you’ll wonder where
I am when we’re not together.
I pretend that all this is a joke,
And that whatever she says to you you spit
Back in her face.
I pretend I am different, that
I am not like all the others you’ve deserted only
So you can sulk in your corner, lonely
And bothered. I pretend
It doesn’t bother me when you act like I’m not
There. I pretend there’s
Still hope, when all there is is
Still-hope, stagnant.
I pretend you’ll come around
Soon enough, ready to take me in,
Drink me up with each kiss, each hand on my face.
I pretend these things are real,
And maybe, not just hopeless
Memories.
“Still-hope” sounds like it should be the title of another poem. If I were Roger, I might consider using it. But then again, why let him have all the fun? Hm.
mmmm, that’s a good point. Dibs! I guess I went with ‘friday the thirteenth’ only cause it’s so damn notorious for being unlucky that everything associated with it is automatically worse, and therefor, more fun…
Oh, I absolutely agree.