The Memory Foam
It’s odd to think that I loved you once. Once upon a time. Once upon a dream. Once upon a lifetime ago when I had different values, different goals. I just assumed the memory foam would always keep your shape so I could fall into it on nights like this. I didn’t realize that the more I ran into the hipster physician’s assistant at the coffee shop around the corner, the more I listened to playlists my friends from back home sent me, the more I wrote out my entire heartbreak while in the hospital, the more I took hot baths blaring music from high school, the more I redecorated my house to reflect my Brooklyn lust, the more I sat by my fireplace with my tiny dog curled up next to me, the more I said ‘yes’ to new experiences in a town still so fresh to me, the more your indentation would fade.
And now, tonight, as I look at your pillow, I can only faintly see where your jaw might have been at one place. Everything else has disappeared. And part of me does not want to wake up tomorrow and run into him again at the coffee shop and listen to the playlist he sent me, to prevent your total disappearance. But another part of me knows that if I stay here, waiting for you to call, text, email back, I will disappear too.