The little tube of a pillow
that props up my arm
disappeared before

I made it to bed deep
into the morning after,
and, in the dark,

groping for its familiar
shape, I could not
find it. Gave up.

Finally fell asleep
and awoke a few hours
later, sore-shouldered,

bewildered. When I
finally rose into the day,
opening the blinds,

looking into the illuminated
back yard where two
birds in the sycamore

rested, eyes closed,
I saw the little lozenge of
a pillow, nested behind

the large propping-up
wedge. How it got there
I have no idea.

But I grabbed it, hugged
its squishy shape and
tucked it back where

I’ll find it tonight.
Comfort exists. Love
has not disappeared,

even if it might seem
to hide. You are still
out there. I am still

in here. There is
more us
than we may think.