Chocolates on the pillow;

the chocolaterie on rue Saint Jacques, on the morning you kissed me. On the corner, on the way to the boulangerie. On an impulse, chocolates in bed, instead of croissants, with coffee.

Coffee on another pillow,

whose bed barely fit me. The room barely fit the bed. Skylight; light, silvery. Frosted frame and liquid, misting, swirling clouds above, cream. Raindrops glistening on glass, diamonds; poverty, Aznavour singing La Bohème on a November morning.

Mascara on a pillow;

the Sinatra Jubilee. My black dress and shiny heels and you: Come Fly with Me. Red lipstick on the dance floor. Red wine spilled, inevitably,

on a pillow, elsewhere,

an earlier night, watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s. On my own, except for Cat and Holly Golightly. On an IKEA futon, on the last evening in the safe, polished, ill-fitting life I never regretted leaving.

Non, rien de rien,

tears on pillows,

certainly; cost of living; loving, trying, winning, failing, but never regretting; tears dry fast and leave no trace on pillows. Too many rivers, gorging, water under so many bridges crossed, best crossed singing, on the way to so many gorgeous places, states of being. Journeys of becoming, best shared, like salt

on the pillow;

popcorn. All throughout, for years, marathon-watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S., with friends, the same, true, real, on sleepovers and Tuesdays, good and bad days, seeking wisdom and comfort and, never old, adding M&Ms—

chocolate M&Ms.

These chocolates… a smear, on the pillow:

two, three, four handprints, tiny, the size of mini Play-Doh cups,
or is that Play-Doh?! Or an abstract teddy bear drawn with a brown wax crayon?

It doesn’t matter. Tonight, on this pillow, there will be traces of camomile, lavender, droopy heads, freshly washed and brushed, snoring.