pillowcase

Tonight, my lover set fire to my pillow, and I’m certain it’s ‘cause she wants my head on her chest. I know this since she’s wearing my pillowcase to bed: a light, white chiffon number with embroidered lavender sewn into the hem. The freshly slit seams on the sides leave openings for her arms and head to slide through the see-through material once highlighted by the now died down bonfire. The yard had been a blaze of glory, glazed over with the flickering tongues of firelight as she stood in front of the pit, gazing down at my pillow like a demon watching the damned, prodding it with an ember-ridden stick. I did not ask questions, just meekly waved from the backdoor and beckoned her to bed, not willing to brave the sheets alone lest she set fire to the whole frame.

After months of watching me flop under the sheets and covers, and caressing that silken lover, heaving heavy sighs and fluttering my eyes and falling into darkened bliss–I’d say she had the right to be pissed. But now that the smoke has settled, it is not my head that rests on her chest, but rather hers on my breasts because there is no stress two girls can’t set right. So, eyes bright, we’ve now woven ourselves together with sheets, my hands skimming her sheer, embroidered sides and my nose nuzzled into her smoke-rinsed hair. There is lavender, but there will be no more need for pillows.