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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