That pillow that was under my arm every night,
while I slept, was practice.
Practice for when we would be together.
Practice so that I could hold you throughout the night.
Then it happened.
You replaced my pillow.
You were under my arm.
I held you close, as I had practiced.
Then it happened again.
You were replaced by my pillow.
You were no longer under my arm.
You were under the arm of another.
The arm of another had replaced me.
The arm of another, who could never love you like I did, and do.
That arm that you now allow to hold you, rips at me every night.
Every night while I sleep with that pillow under my arm.
Holding it, hoping that it will be you once more.
