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I Smelled Him In My Pillow

He wore a cologne that made my heart stop
like rain on a sunny day in a coming spring.
His voice was soothing,
mystical: Billie Holiday,
getting ready to sing.
I smelled him in my pillow the next night.
Hours after he left with hugs
that seemed to offer future promises.
His taste, his touch,
his gaze,
too untrustworthy for me to ever wallow in.
Alone, I still contemplated what could never be.
Lifestyles far too different; too complex,
But still refused to listen
or to see.
I knew it would end,
but still hoped to be the girl somehow written for the script.
Accepting false precisions,
I had given up on all fortitude,
essentially lost my grip.
But I smelled him in my pillow
of drunken doings, made up feelings, and cinderella endings,
to escape everything I knew.
And in the mornings of the birds chirps,
I woke to another day that had to be taken responsible of
to be considered true.
Naked,
I laid ambivalent about whether or not I was truly ashamed.
The comfort in my sheets resting softly on my skin,
as if to tell me he was the one to blame.
As if to say they would rest softly on my skin night after night.
As long as I needed them,
to fill that empty constant.
When Billie Holiday would sing the blues,
and rid my pain in the day
of forthcoming nonsense.
Sweet,
Yet so terrifyingly cold,
It was the smell of him in my pillow;
An absent friend and foe.

poem by Dylan Rivera
Added by Poetry Lover
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