My pillow has gone old.
It has a depression in the middle where I place my head every night.
It's not soft and fluffy. It has gone old and flat.
So I suddenly realize I don't like it anymore. I realize that it's not enough. I realize that I can get better.
I walk a lot. I walk till my heels ache from bearing my weight for too long. And I wonder if my brain gets tired too from the weight of my thoughts that it carries.
My train of thoughts isn't as long as you would presume. It's a small one, with limited seats. And a reserved seat that stays empty. It stays empty except once a month. The day you visit me.
You see, I'm happy with waiting. And I'm satisfied with small gestures. Small gestures that are meaningful. Like the month before, on that blissful day, you looked at me more times than you did at the book you were reading.
I remember our hushed whispers over the steaming hot cups of tea, always having so much to share in so little time. Your hand lightly grazing mine, during your excited stories, to the point I have stopped feeling it.
And now it has been twelve months but I haven't seen you.
I'm starting to wonder if I've become that pillow to you too.
Old and flat.
Maybe you realize you don't like me anymore. Maybe you realize I'm not enough, that you can get better.
Last Sunday, I bought a new pillow, have you befriended someone new too?
