clutching onto that familiar scent,
plain and cotton,
under our pillows,
hiding away from the laundry basket,
thin and fragile,
brought textures of security and warmth,
intoxicatingly assuring,
whats mine is yours,
whats yours is mine,
and it was only a dream,
it was only my blanket,
that was clutching onto that familiar scent.
3 comments:
Is this a poem about your bed? LOL I can never put my creativity into words. I do draw though :)
if this was facebook i would've clicked like twice :)
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