Will You?

I fall asleep at night, with ease alone, and captain of my sheets. The other pillow still remains unused, 'tis sad though, I can say. She left and took her trinquets her mink, a thousand shoes, twelve plastic cards, an album of rare stamps, nylons from Bon Marché, the Merc, false nails, ten boob supports, coupons and files, Aunt Hulda's coins, both Sonys and a wad of cash. She'd come some day for photos of the brats, and us, of the reunions and the trip to Spain. I kept the Satin sheets, her pillow and the pumicestone. I wake alone, I dream and drool but never touch what cradled her, withstood the gel, the overnight renew and hops inside to help attain a perfect sleep. And then, there came the day when I awoke from lethargy, put on my thongs and went for city walkabout. Eyes must be trained and mine were not, they'd learned to sleep and let the world and all its women pass. Until the day that she, whom I describe as a blue flower of the very special kind. Exquisite plant, she winked. I kid you not. Her lashes were not false, a reassurance of the kind that men, becoming set in their own ways and (really) stale, would take as cash in hand to pay for inner peace. We spent what turned into a silent avalanche, to be averted yet unwilling to comply. She touched, I did return and there was heat and laughter all the same, and there was need. I have removed at once, the pillow from the past. Its place, now occupied with timid pride and hope that cries its tears and laughs its joys, by stubby shorts and Bond's Y-type, a bright Hawaiian shirt and one small handkerchief. It smells of HER, a scent to kill all doubts just for a little while. And there is room in case she comes. And a new pillow and the real things in life.