The first stanza is such a powerful simile, because how often do we use poetry in desperation, in ways to cope, praying it takes us elsewhere, anywhere else than having to relive memories?

In the second stanza, the "plushy" part drew me out of the poem for a second, perhaps I was hoping for something more poetic or specific or elegant in a way?

The last three lines are stark. They leave me feeling that his touch does not make an impact, it's barely there, barely memorable and when he writes or loves, his presence isn't fully there. It's drifting.