I wake up in this borrowed bed. It came with the house from the retired Dollar General store owner in Florida who once owned it.

I allow my life to sink into it each night as if it’s always been here cradling my mind, hugging my body.

My fingers caress the thin lump of a pillow next to me as if it were him. Not a particular him as it’s been far too long since he was here and even when he physically was, he emotionally wasn’t.

So I glide my fingertips over the white cotton and wish for a fantasy him, physically and emotionally synced up in this borrowed bed here in the country with me.

What to do with this want?

Turn. Sit. Slip one leg then the next into these worn black pants. Rub the sleep off. Place that ache appropriately within, away from society eyes.

Coffee. Keys. I’ll return to this another time.

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