The first night back in her bedroom, I had to relearn who she was.
She liked soft, plush blankets that pull you in
and make you drown under their warm waves
until you can barely tell where the bed ends and you begin.
I have gotten used to beds that keep you separate from them,
beds that let you know when you wake up that there are
better places to be, that there is more to see
than the bed you slept on.
I was uncomfortable in her bed.
She had pictures surrounding her bed,
friends with histories I remembered but
personalities and hobbies I no longer knew.
Her dreamcatcher hung above me,
swaying and whispering like beachgrass.
I stared at it from atop the soft bed, and started to sink deeper.
By Marissa Cole
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